


All's Fair in Magic and Monsters

by RockSaltAndRoll



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Angst, Bi Disaster Jaskier, Bisexuality, Blow Jobs, Denial of Feeliings, Drunken Kissing, Flirty Jaskier, Grumpy Geralt, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Just a Disaster Geralt, Kissing, M/M, One Geralt/Jaskier/Yennefer Threesome, One instance of Geralt/Yen, Pining, Primary Ship - Geralt/Jaskier, Reluctant friends to lovers, Sex, So much flirting, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:01:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 51,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22336708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RockSaltAndRoll/pseuds/RockSaltAndRoll
Summary: Monsters and magic still exist in the world and Detective Inspector Geralt Rivia is a member of a small squad of London Met police officers tasked with keeping them in check. After saving the life of freelance journalist Jaskier, Geralt reluctantly allows him to tag along on cases...Between a curious case of a serial murderer who may be under a curse and various monsters loose in London, Geralt gains internet fame through Jaskier's blog. Although Geralt hates the newfound attention, he can't seem to stop himself from falling for his new partner...even if Jaskier never shuts up for a single second.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 562
Kudos: 629





	1. Sex and Witchers

_ Verily, there is nothing so hideous as the monsters, so contrary to nature, known as Witchers for they are the offspring of foul sorcery and devilry. They are rogues without virtue, conscience, or scruple, true diabolic creations, fit only for killing. There is no place amidst honest men for such as they. _

_ - _ Anonymous _ , Monstrum  _ or _ Description of the Witcher _

____

It wasn’t that Geralt Rivia didn’t like pubs or a good pint. Given a good, old fashioned pub with original, woodwormed Tudor beams and a large stone fireplace where they didn’t sell brightly coloured, fruity cocktails with little umbrellas, and the smell of malt and tobacco hung in the air, Geralt rather felt quite at home. It was places like _these_ he hated – where the punters strutted around half-dressed and shit-faced on a Saturday night; where the lights were too bright and the music too loud.

The bar’s singer wasn’t the worst he’d ever heard – some blue-eyed baby-faced dick in tight jeans and an even tighter t-shirt, with a cheeky wink and a charming smile that had half the bar swooning. He was good-looking and he knew it; he had a good singing voice, and he knew that too - a handsome wanker, but a wanker nonetheless.

Taking a sip of his pint, Geralt turned his attention back to the couple he was following. They were both tall, both slim with sharp cheekbones and piercing green eyes. They looked so alike that one could have mistaken them for siblings, and Geralt supposed in a way that they were…for their species.

The crowd suddenly erupted into cheers and applause as the singer finished his tune and bowed deeply, blowing kisses to all. Geralt couldn’t help but turn in the direction of the noise and made the mistake of not looking away again fast enough. His eyes locked with those of cornflower blue and he cursed under his breath as the singer smiled at him. The last thing he needed was for some cocky twat distracting him from his job.

“Thank you! Thank you!” the singer said into his microphone. “I’m Jaskier, and you’ve been wonderful!”

Geralt turned away from him. The couple both leaned against the bar, sipping cocktails and watching the crowd like they were waiting for something. They watched the crowd and Geralt watched them.

Camden had been plagued by a string of murders in the past few weeks – young men and women found naked and dead from exhaustion in their own beds after a night of sex; the scent of jasmine and sandalwood hanging in the air, tainted with the faintest smell of sulphur. Families claimed that the victims had been in perfect health prior to death; eyewitnesses said the victims didn’t appear to be drunk or under the influence of drugs; that they left the bar in the company of a beautiful couple.

Geralt knew the moment he saw them that he had the right pair – he only needed to catch them in the act.

“I love the way you just…sit in the corner and brood.”

Geralt turned his head sharply to find the bar singer leaning casually against a nearby pillar, his acoustic guitar slung over his back.

_Fuck_ , thought Geralt. This was exactly the kind of thing he’d hoped to avoid.

“I prefer to drink alone,” Geralt growled in his gruffest tone.

The young man smiled at him again and slid smoothly into the seat opposite Geralt, moving his guitar with practiced ease. Geralt fixed him with his steeliest glare.

“Are you sure I can’t tempt you with a spot of company?” Jaskier asked.

Geralt sighed. He didn’t think he’d be half as bothered by this amorous otter had it not seemed so rehearsed. Everything, from the way he brushed his hair back with his index finger to the charming smile and the way he leaned forward and fluttered his long eyelashes felt to Geralt like it had been done a thousand times before – a tried and tested routine.

“No,” grumbled Geralt, “fuck off.”

The singer sat back, jaw dropping and blue eyes wide with surprise. Geralt tried to ignore him; leaning slightly to the side so he could keep an eye on the nefarious pair.

“Rude,” Jaskier replied, dramatically.

Behind him, Geralt could see the couple whisper to each other as they looked in the direction of a group of dancing girls.

“You’re not my type,” Geralt told him, tightly, “why don’t you do us both a favour and move on..”

Jaskier blinked, evidently shocked at Geralt’s blunt rebuttal but to his credit he smiled graciously and stood, backing slowly away.

“Fair enough,” he replied. “I’m sorry I bothered you. Enjoy your evening.”

Geralt watched him walk away and sighed, reaching for his pint. He had to admire the man’s confidence, after all Geralt wasn’t exactly the most inviting person in this bar, dressed in black leather with two very large and very scary swords about his person. It took a lot of guts to approach somebody who looked like they could snap you in half.

The truth was, if Geralt hadn’t been working, he may have been tempted. Jaskier _was_ good looking, and his tight clothes more than hinted to the lean body under them. He might have been over confident and a little cocky but…

Geralt shook the thought from his mind and focused on the couple instead. This was too important to get distracted. 

____

Jaskier honestly felt a bit put out. True, he’d taken a bit of a risk walking over to that gorgeous brooding man with stunning golden eyes and white-blond hair, but damn…that rejection had been _harsh_. He thought he’d had the routine nailed by now – he’d given his most charming smile; the line; the lean – and usually it worked a whole lot better than that. Jaskier had been pretty confident in his seduction skills, but tonight they had failed him.

It had just been one of those things – Jaskier’s eyes had spotted him in the corner and…well…he was supposed to be working, but he’d thought he could get at least a phone number out of it. The truth was, Jaskier had only got the gig because the bar’s usual singer had died the previous week under rather mysterious circumstances. That was the real reason Jaskier was here – to do a bit of investigating into the strange murders in his neighbourhood. All the victims had frequented this particular bar before they’d died and Jaskier was a naturally curious human being. He needed to know more.

Feeling a little maudlin, he took himself to the bar and ordered five shots of tequila to bolster his pride. So his gamble with the beefy blond in the corner hadn’t paid off, but he still had a job to do and a whole evening to investigate. Suddenly, Jaskier felt a touch on his shoulder – nails gently scraping across the thin fabric of his t-shirt, and he looked up to find a striking woman at his side with the most vivid green eyes. Jaskier had always been a sucker for pretty eyes…

“I enjoyed your performance,” she said; her voice soft and sultry.

Jaskier perked up immediately.

“Thank you,” he replied, cheerfully. “I had a fantastic audience tonight – I really thrive on good energy.”

The woman looked Jaskier over, green eyes trailing down across his chest and stomach and coming to rest just below his waistline; her white teeth dragging over blood-red lips. It made the hairs stand up on Jaskier’s arms and the back of his neck, and he allowed a delightful shiver to run through him. She smelled delicious – the heavy scent of jasmine from her perfume curling around his senses.

“I can tell,” she purred. “I also…thrive on energy.”

Oh, but _this_ was better! A stunning woman was draped over him and Jaskier was barely even trying to be impressive. His wounded pride was almost forgotten as he felt a second touch on his other shoulder and he turned, finding himself gazing into the almost identical green eyes of an equally stunning man.

“My sister and I would very much like to show you our appreciation for…such a wonderful evening of entertainment,” the man said; his voice just as soft and seductive.

Jaskier blinked.

“S-sister?” he repeated, looking from the man to the woman and back again. They really did look remarkably similar. “You’re…twins?”

The heady scent of sandalwood mixed with the heavy jasmine and Jaskier could almost feel his muscles relaxing; his mind slowing as the soft mixture wrapped around his brain. Had he been more in charge of his faculties, Jaskier might have noticed the look that passed between the two – hungry; predatory. Alas, he remained clueless; silently blaming the hard liquor he’d just downed for his current state.

“Yes,” the woman confirmed in her low purr.

“Let us take you home,” the man whispered in Jaskier’s ear; his warm wet tongue pressing softly against his lobe.

This was all happening incredibly fast even for Jaskier, but he found himself nodding dumbly in agreement. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d bedded twins – he was always happy to be the meat in the sandwich and a menage-a-trois was a fun way to pass an evening. He completely forgot why he’d come here in the first place, his brain focussed completely on the beautiful pair; his body feeling soft and hazy

Jaskier gave them both a blurry smile as he collected his jacket and allowed himself to be guided out of the bar between them. It was almost like he was in a dream - his limbs heavy but at the same time, light; weightless. The orange streetlights danced in the night as Jaskier’s head swam.

Five shots didn’t affect you like this.

He realised that his legs weren’t moving of their own accord, that he was being hauled with surprising strength by the stunning green-eyed twins towards the taxi rank at the end of the street. Suddenly, his cheer disappeared and he felt the icy grip of panic at his insides. Jaskier couldn’t move; couldn’t call out; paralysed with that heavy cloying scent of sandalwood and jasmine fogging up everything.

They had roofied him. That was the only explanation – these beautiful people had drugged him, kidnapped him, and they were now going to bundle him into a taxi and take him somewhere secluded so they could do God only knows what with him.

It felt as though the world was collapsing in on him; his mouth dry and darkness seeping in at the edges of his vision. Jaskier remembered thinking that this was the end of him when he heard a screech and he hit the ground like a stone, face first; a flash of metal and white-blond hair the last thing he saw as the jasmine and sandalwood sleep overwhelmed him and he slipped under its spell.

____

Geralt wondered if he should feel bad for allowing Jaskier to be used as bait, but he supposed somebody had to play victim for the evening and it might as well be that twat.

He’d watched from his corner as the succubus had approached the singer at the bar; watched the change in Jaskier’s expression as he breathed in her jasmine scent. The poor idiot had been head over heels even before the incubus had joined in the seduction, and he stood no chance once the two of them had joined forces.

They were a strange couple. Succubi and incubi tended to work alone, yet these two worked as a team and furthermore, whilst their kind never _intended_ to do humans any harm, they could drain energy to the point of death if they were starving. This couple seemed to do it on purpose. They hunted like predators; worked together like pack animals to separate their pray from the crowds and then they would share their prize. A proper folie-a-deux.

Geralt had followed them out into the street, observing the effect the couple’s spell had on the singer as they headed to the taxi rank. The paralysis worked fast and within minutes they were practically carrying him, supporting Jaskier’s weight between them. For a moment, Geralt considered letting them get into the taxi…but losing them was too big a risk. Once they had Jaskier in private, they would essentially fuck him to death and the poor sod didn’t deserve that, no matter how much of a tit he was.

His hand went to his belt and Geralt unsheathed a small iron knife. He shifted it in his palm so that his fingers gripped the tip, and then he threw.

The succubus screeched loudly as it grazed her arm, slicing through her skin and making her lose her grip on Jaskier. He watched as Jaskier fell to the ground; the green-eyed pair turning their attention to Geralt.

“I’ve been looking for you two,” Geralt addressed them, quietly. “Although based on your previous victims, I thought you had better taste.”

Instantly, the glamour dissolved to reveal their true countenance. Beneath their velvet skin were ram-like horns, pointed teeth and large leathery wings that sprouted from their shoulders; soft hands turning into bird-like claws.

“Leave usssssss,” the incubus hissed.

Geralt shook his head.

“That’s not going to happen,” he replied, quietly. “You see, you’ve murdered five people and you were about to murder a sixth. You kill for the thrill of it, not for survival and that makes you dangerous. I won’t let you murder anyone else.”

Another ungodly screech split the air and Geralt drew his broadsword in one smooth motion as the succubus launched herself at him, claws ready to gouge out his eyes. The sword went straight through her heart and the noise died in her throat as her eyes widened in shock as she burst into flames. Geralt shook his sword free and rounded on the incubus who snarled at him, baring his sharp teeth.

His sword made short work of the incubus too and within minutes Geralt was left standing between two piles of smouldering ash. Carefully, he re-sheathed his sword in the scabbard at his back and turned to the collapsed form of Jaskier, face down and drooling on the pavement; his sandy hair falling across his face.

Geralt sighed heavily. The succubus and incubus had put the singer into a paralysed sleep and it would be a long time before Jaskier woke from it. Geralt couldn’t exactly leave him there in the middle of the road – he might have disposed of two monsters that night but that didn’t mean there weren’t more waiting in the shadows, both of the supernatural and human kind.

In the end, Geralt did the only thing he could.

Gently, he hauled the drugged Jaskier up and hoisted him onto his shoulder. Jaskier was slim and light, and Geralt carried him with ease to the end of the street; flagging down a black London cab with his free hand.

He was just going to have to take the idiot home with him.

____

Jaskier felt like he’d been hit by a steamroller. Every part of his body ached down to the bone and his head felt like it contained a cannonball; like he was waking up from a really heavy night of drinking. He groaned loudly, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes before raking his fingers through his hair and tried to force open his lids.

He wasn’t in his own bed. Jaskier sat up like a shot, eyes darting around the strange room and taking stock of the unfamiliar surroundings; setting finally on a figure slumped in a chair in the corner.

“Good morning.”

Jaskier recognised him immediately – the black clothes; the white blond hair; the broad shoulders; the golden eyes. Jaskier blinked.

“Uh…hello,” he replied, uncertainly.

His mind was fuzzy, but Jaskier was pretty sure that gorgeous blond had very harshly knocked him back the night before. Jaskier was having trouble remembering much past that, but he was almost sure he didn’t leave the bar with this guy.

“Uhm…” Jaskier began, pushing his hair back from his face as he sat up, “forgive me but my memory appears to be a little hazy. We didn’t…I mean…last night…you and me,,,we didn’t…” Jaskier lowered his voice to a whisper, “…have sex?”

Gold eyes stared unblinkingly at him.

“No.”

“Oh,” replied Jaskier, softly. A quick pat and glance down at his own body proved that Jaskier was still wearing all of his clothes except his shoes. “That’s a shame. In that case, do you mind telling me who you are and what I’m doing in…what I can only presume is your bed?”

“Geralt Rivia – Detective Inspector, London Metropolitan police,” the man introduced himself wearily, shifting slightly to take an ID from his back jeans pocket. “You’re here because I saved your life.”

Geralt tossed the ID to Jaskier, who immediately opened it for a closer look. Jaskier’s jaw dropped. Suddenly, it all came flooding back – the two green-eyed beauties; the heady scent of jasmine and sandalwood; of leaving with them and fast losing the ability to walk or talk or scream; the panic…

“You were picked up last night by an incubus and a succubus – they were a tag team that have been seducing customers at that bar every Saturday night for the last few weeks; taking them home…draining their energy…”

“Fuck,” Jaskier whispered. “So that’s what it was!”

He’d taken the gig at the bar so that he could look into those murders and he had inadvertently found the killers. Or, more to the point, they had found him, filled his head with the sweet scent of jasmine and sandalwood, and made him putty in their hands.

“So,” he continued, looking warily at Geralt, “are you telling me I was almost supernaturally date raped?”

Geralt raised an eyebrow.

“You could call it that,” Geralt replied, gruffly,” except between the two of them they would have fucked you to death.”

“Shiiiiiiiit…” breathed Jaskier; wide-eyed.

Well, that was horrifying.

It was no secret that monsters and mythical creatures walked amongst humans. Jaskier had seen the odd elf and sylvan walking down the street…he’d even seen a satyr at a party once, but it was common knowledge that most of the world’s monsters had either died out or been killed with human expansion. Occasionally there were reports of feral creatures or monsters loose in the world, but there were people that dealt with that sort of thing – people with their own supernatural abilities…

Jaskier’s head suddenly snapped up, eyes back on Geralt.

“Oh…” he said, as realisation suddenly dawned on him. “Wait a minute - gold eyes…white hair…two big, scary swords…monster fighter. I know what you are – you’re a Witcher!”

Geralt looked away, his jaw tensing.

The deep aches in Jaskier’s joints and the pain in his head seemed to melt away in his excitement. Witchers were legendary monster hunters, keeping humans safe from the supernatural for centuries, but even they were rare these days. Jaskier was overjoyed.

“Oh!” he exclaimed. “Oh this…this is incredible! Never in my life did I ever think I would meet one of you guys…”

“Yes, well…it happens when you leave bars with murderous sex demons,” grumbled Geralt. “You were lucky I was there.”

“Yes…” Jaskier replied, carefully.

This was something. Jaskier had gone out looking for answers to questions and he’d found…a Witcher. For centuries, people had considered Witchers to be monsters in their own right; mutated by magic and granted strength and speed and agility beyond human capability. Times had changed and horizons had broadened, but to find a Witcher working for the Met; who had saved Jaskier’s life…

“I really was. If there’s any way I could repay you for saving my arse…”

“There’s no need,” Geralt interrupted him.

“Just a small token of appreciation…”

Geralt growled. He actually growled – like an angry dog. Jaskier blinked as Geralt bent down, picked up Jaskier’s shoes and jacket from the floor, and unceremoniously dumped them on the bed by Jaskier’s legs.

“I want nothing,” Geralt replied bluntly, “just go home and forget this ever happened.”

“Should I really be doing that?” Jaskier countered; pulling on one shoe. “Should I not be going to the hospital? I mean, I was essentially slipped a supernatural roofie – that’s quite concerning…”

“Just drink some water and flush it out of your system, you’ll be fine.”

However much Jaskier protested, Geralt didn’t seem to care. In the end, he was practically manhandled through the small flat by delightfully strong hands and bundled out of the door.

“Will I see you again?” Jaskier asked as he regained his balance of the doorstep.

Geralt scowled.

“Pray you don’t,” he growled before shutting the door in Jaskier’s face.

Straightening his jacket collar, Jaskier smiled to himself as he turned on his heel and took a few steps down the street, determined that this wasn’t the last he’d see of Geralt Rivia. 


	2. In Which Geralt Gets Stuck With an Annoying Journalist

The Supernatural Crimes department of the Met police was tucked away in the darkest crevices of Scotland Yard; out of sight and out of mind from the rest of the coppers in the building. Even in this day and age, they made people uneasy – Witchers, mages, and all those with the touch of the supernatural about them. Granted, the office hadn’t moved since its conception in the 1970s, when the Government decided to integrate the monster hunters into the organisation where they could be monitored and, to a certain degree, controlled.

Geralt supposed he at least had a steady income these days which was a step up from relying on the kindness of the locals and the depth of their pockets. He’d learned to integrate, shunning his nomadic lifestyle in favour of permanent residence in a Notting Hill flat that he’d bought before the area’s gentrification, when Portobello Road was still an absolute shithole. To be fair, Portobello Road was still a shithole – it was just a gentrified shithole now.

It should have bothered him more than it did – passing both uniform and non-uniform coppers on the stairs and in the corridors, striding purposefully towards his department while they hugged the walls to avoid the six-foot tall Witcher with two sword strapped to his person and a scowl that could sour milk. If truth be told, he rather enjoyed watching them scatter.

Triss Merigold glanced up from her computer as Geralt entered the office on Monday morning; her soft dark brown curls bouncing delicately at the turn of her head.

“Calanthe wants to see you,” she said immediately.

“Hmm,” responded Geralt.

He liked Triss a little better than he liked most people. She was a good monster hunter with a lot of empathy and gentleness in her. Unlike Geralt, she worked well with others and was courteous so people tended not to avoid her at all costs.

Chief Superintendent Calanthe on the other hand…

“Did she say what it was about?” Geralt asked.

Triss shook her head.

“No,” she replied, “just that you need to see her immediately.”

“Fuck,” Geralt muttered.

Triss raised her eyebrows.

“What did you do to incur the wrath of the Lioness?”

Geralt sighed as he shirked off his weapons and left them propped up against his desk.

“Fuck knows,” he replied.

He wondered if it was anything to do with the pair he’d taken down on Saturday night. Geralt had already filled in all of his reports – he’d logged onto the system from home on Sunday, had filled in all of his paperwork and submitted it. Everything had been done properly, not that anyone really cared. Monsters weren’t awarded the same judicial rights as humans, so nobody ultimately gave a shit how they were brought down, as long as it happened and the media could report an end to the terror.

Geralt couldn’t imagine why the Chief Superintendent wanted so urgently to speak with him but he did as he was bid, straightening the collar of his jacket carefully before knocking on her office door.

“Come in!”

Calanthe’s voice didn’t sound harsh or angry, and he frowned as he opened the door. She was comfortably reclined in her chair, black hair piled on her head with dark tendrils framing her face. Calanthe looked amused, and the amusement seemed to grow as she turned her dark eyes towards him.

“Ah! Geralt!” she mused, grinning unnervingly. “I thought you’d never get here. Delays on the Hammersmith and City line?”

“My apologies…” Geralt began, his voice trailing off as he noticed a pair of shiny black Oxford shoes propped up on the corner of Calanthe’s desk, realising for the first time that there was somebody in the chair in front of him.

Geralt frowned as he moved closer and the chair’s occupant turned to look at him.

“Geralt, may I introduce Julian Alfred Pancratz – he’s a freelance journalist who is very interested in doing a piece on your work.”

The face gazing up at Geralt was unwelcomingly familiar, from the side-swept sandy hair to the cornflower-blue eyes which were currently obscured behind large, round, thick black designer frames. The navy suit he wore was evidently Savile Row tailored, perfectly paired with a tie of buttercup yellow silk and pocket square, but just as form-fitting as the jeans and t-shirt Geralt had seen him in on Saturday night.

Jaskier beamed up at him. Geralt restrained himself from punching Jaskier in the face.

“With all due respect, Chief Superintendent…you’ve been lied to. This man’s name is Jaskier and he’s not a journalist, he’s a singer…”

“Actually,” Jaskier interrupted him, his smile growing, “I’m both.”

Geralt looked from Jaskier to Calanthe and back again.

“What?”

“I assure you, Witcher,” Calanthe drawled as she leaned across her desk to lightly tap a large leather-bound volume, “his portfolio is very real and his credentials do check out – a Bachelors in Politics and a Masters in Journalism, both from Cambridge University; articles published in national newspapers as well as some international magazines…”

_ Great _ , Geralt mused to himself,  _ so we’re dealing with an _ educated  _ twat here _ . 

Jaskier beamed up at him.

“I was just telling the Chief Superintendant here about how you and I met,” said Jaskier, cheerfully, “about how you saved me from two very dangerous sex monsters who would surely have killed me had you not stepped in.”

“That’s something you didn’t put in your report,” Calanthe mused quietly, her arms folded gently across her chest as her dark eyes studied Geralt’s face for his reaction; that smile still playing on her lips.

Geralt’s eyes narrowed. True, he hadn’t mentioned Jaskier at all in his filed report – only that he’d stepped in and prevented the murderous pair from leaving with another victim. He wondered why Jaskier was here; what his intentions were for approaching Calanthe with this and how much Geralt was going to suffer because of it.

He sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

“Respectfully, Chief Superintendant,” Geralt said, “but what the  _ fuck _ is going on?”

Calanthe almost seemed to be enjoying Geralt’s confusion and discomfort.

“Mr Pancratz has been working undercover - doing research for a series of stories on monsters and how they are perceived these days in comparison to centuries gone by,” she replied.

“I was investigating the rumours of that bar being tied to those murders you were dealing with on Saturday night,” interrupted Jaskier, excitedly, “and then I met you – a Witcher…”

“…Mr Pancratz has charge of…what was it? A blog?”

Jaskier nodded, taking his feet finally from Calanthe’s desk and turning his body towards Geralt; blue eyes wide and shining.

“It’s a good one,” Jaskier insisted. “Paid for & run by National Geographic and everything. It’s all very above board and they’re very keen to put out fresh information on the monsters and creatures that are still out there in the world and when I mentioned that I’d met a Witcher…”

“No,” growled Geralt.

Jaskier blinked at him.

“You didn’t even let me finish my sentence!”

“If it  involves having me on that blog in any way, then no.”

“I said yes,” Calanthe interjected.

Geralt stopped dead and glared at her, leaning back in her chair and still wearing that amused smirk on her face.

“What the fuck do you mean you said yes?” he growled, dangerously.

Calanthe opened her mouth to speak, but once again Jaskier jumped in like an overexcited puppy.

“Cheif Superintendent Calanthe thinks it would be a fantastic idea if I...shadow you for a while. Really get into the life of a Witcher - what it really means to be a Witcher dealing with monsters in this modern age with all the...” Jaskier waved his hands dramatically, “...stigma attached. Maybe draw the public’s attention to the work you do - putting your life on the line to protect humans. That sort of thing.”

Geralt wasn’t the world’s best conversationalist at the best of times but at this moment words failed him completely, leaving him dumbly looking between the two in disbelief. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing – that this annoying, talkative, overly-enthusiastic young man could have  _ one _ encounter with a pair of murderous demons where he almost died and think it was a fun idea to involve himself with  _ more _ murderous creatures; that he’d taken one look at Geralt and decided to attach himself in any way he could.

Geralt wasn’t sure what was worse – that he was facing an imminent future of having an irritating journalist following him around, or that Calanthe thought it was an outstanding plan.

“You have to be fucking kidding me…” he muttered.

“I’m afraid not,” replied Calanthe, a hard edge to her voice now.

The Chief Superintendent of the Met wasn’t called ‘The Lioness’ for nothing. Calanthe might have been relatively young for the job, but she was formidable – tough and strong-willed and she stood for no bullshit. She’d obliterated the careers of lesser mortals (and immortals) with relative ease and everybody thought twice before crossing her. Calanthe was a determined woman and she held Geralt’s career in her hands.

He did, for a split second, think about telling her to fuck off…but where would he go if he did that? Witchers were all but obsolete these days – being a freelance monster hunter had been all well and good at the turn of the 20 th century but the world had grown since then; monsters were few and far between and mages had taken over most of the pest control. Without his job, Geralt was likely to decline and die out like Witchers before him who had failed to adapt to the times.

Geralt realised with a jolt that Jaskier and Calanthe had started talking again, and he shook the thought from his mind.

“…I thought the two of you might want to get started as soon as possible,” Calanthe told Jaskier. “Geralt doesn’t have any pressing cases right now. I’m sure he can spare a few hours to answer any preliminary questions you might have, Mr Pancratz.”

“Oh, that would be fantastic,” enthused Jaskier, turning his excited face back to Geralt. “Have you had breakfast yet? I know this great little place around the corner that does champagne brunch! I can buy you…hey… _ hey, wait _ …!”

Geralt growled as he grabbed the protesting journalist by the collar of his pristine Hugo Boss suit jacket and hauled him bodily out of the chair. It was rather satisfying to have Jaskier dangling pathetically and wriggling like a worm on a hook in his grasp as Geralt carried him to the door.

“…is that a ‘no’ to champagne brunch then…?”

Geralt all but tossed Jaskier through the door and slammed it closed again, ignoring the rattle of the frosted glass as he rounded on Calanthe who looked completely unbothered that Geralt had just manhandled a person out of her office.

“What the fuck?” he asked, slamming his hands on her desk as he glowered over it.

Calanthe scoffed.

“Oh, stop your boorish complaining, Witcher,” she replied. “This is a brilliant opportunity, and deep down I think you know that.”

“How the fuck is this, in any way, brilliant?”

Calanthe looked at him levelly, arms folded across her chest again.

“The Met could do with some good press,” explained Calanthe, “and your image could do with a boost. I know how every bloody copper in this place moves out of your way when you walk down a corridor; how they whisper about you; how people are still frightened when they see those yellow eyes. He’s right,” Calanthe inclined her head towards the door Geralt had thrown Jaskier out of, “there  _ is _ a stigma still surrounding Witchers, and something like this could go a long way to changing public opinion. Pancratz is intelligent, he’s charismatic, and what’s more he doesn’t seem in any way even slightly intimidated by the big scary Witcher.”

Geralt pressed his lips tightly together and huffed.

“I don’t care about public opinion,” he muttered.

“Evidently,” mused Calanthe; her eyebrows raising in amusement again, “but I do, and I’m ordering you to do this. Let that boy follow you around for a few weeks, let him write his stories and blog about you until he’s either bored out of his mind or he’s shit his pants, depending on what monsters pop up in the meantime. Who knows…he might even grow on you.”

_ A few weeks? _ thought Geralt. He supposed he could possibly endure a few weeks of Jaskier, and maybe Calanthe was right – he might encounter a monster so terrifying that it would put Jaskier off for good and he’d have to spend even less time having a journalist follow him about.

Reluctantly he agreed – not that he really had much choice in the matter. Sighing heavily, Geralt left Calanthe’s office, fully expecting to see a pair or cornflower-blue eyes staring at him expectantly and was rather surprised to find no sign of Jaskier at all.

Frowning, Geralt made his way through the building and back to his department, now hyper-aware of the coppers hugging the walls around him. Admittedly, Geralt did nothing to make himself less intimidating – he dressed entirely in black and while he was sure there was a more modern equivalent that was far less conspicuous, Geralt insisted on the traditional swords of steel and silver that terrified the absolute shit out of everyone, and yet made him easily identifiable as a Witcher. He’d changed so much of himself in order to integrate with humanity as much as possible that he wanted to cling onto the last bits of his identity.

Geralt sighed when he entered his department to find Jaskier sitting and chatting animatedly to Triss. So much for hoping he’d buggered off home.

The sorceress obviously didn’t find Jaskier half as irritating as Geralt as she was laughing at something Jaskier was saying – some anecdote by the way Jaskier was waving his hands again for dramatic effect as he spoke. His blue eyes lit up as he caught sight of Geralt striding across the room.

“Geralt!” Jaskier hailed him, beaming as though he hadn’t been forcibly removed from a room by his scruff only fifteen minutes earlier.

“Is he bothering you?” Geralt addressed Triss, completely ignoring Jaskier.

Triss laughed.

“Absolutely not, I was being thoroughly entertained,” Triss replied, genuinely. “Jaskier is a delightfully funny storyteller.”

Jaskier grinned up at him again and Geralt resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He guessed that Jaskier had been telling Triss all about what had gone down in Calanthe’s office. Geralt wondered if Triss had had any idea about it before Geralt had gone in.

“Which one is it?” Geralt asked gruffly, rounding on the journalist, “Julian or Jaskier?”

Jaskier blinked.

“Oh,” he said softly, “well…I honestly try to associate myself with my family as little as possible, so I go by Jaskier mostly. Just Jaskier.”

“Hmm,” replied Geralt.

He wasn’t particularly interested in the man’s family strife and he really didn’t want to give Jaskier the opportunity to talk about it. Jaskier looked like the type to over-share and Geralt wasn’t in the mood. Thankfully, Jaskier seemed happy not to divulge more on the subject at this moment in time.

“So…I’m taking it that you’re  _ not _ a big fan of champagne brunch given your earlier reaction,” Jaskier continued, “in which case, can I interest you in a pint?”

Geralt frowned.

“It’s eleven o’clock in the morning.”

“Perfect!” Jaskier enthused, springing up from the chair. “Pubs are open!”

Geralt stared at him as Jaskier bounded past, overwhelmed by Jaskier’s energy. Triss smothered her snort of laughter with her hand.

“Have fun,” she said, grinning as Geralt scooped up his swords and hauled them into place.

“Fuck off,” he groused.

____

Jaskier hadn’t felt this kind of thrill in ages.

Granted, he had mostly bullshitted his way into Superintendent Calanthe’s office with the meagre amount of published articles he had in his portfolio, and had quite honestly believed she’d throw him out on his arse. It was both incredibly surprising and deeply exciting that she’d found his proposal to feature Geralt on his blog to be a good one.

Now, Jaskier found himself sitting opposite Geralt Rivia in Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese pub in Fleet Street with a pint of house ale each and a distinct feeling that the Witcher would rather be fighting a Striga than sitting there with him.

The pub was old, dating back to 1667 but had been rebuilt after the Great Fire, meaning Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese had stood on that spot since before then. It didn’t look like it had changed much since the mid seventeenth century either – the original floor was still in place; the ceilings low and supported by uneven dark wooden beams; small windows letting in very little light; orange fire burning behind an iron grate.

Geralt glared at him over a pint of dark amber ale but Jaskier grinned at him. Never in his life did he think he’d be here – having a pint with a Witcher on a Monday morning – and he felt like he was way out of his depth; his head barely keeping above water.

“I just really want to get a basic background,” Jaskier said, sliding his jacket across the padded bench seat and beginning to roll up his sleeves. “Who is Geralt Rivia? What you do; how long you’ve been doing it; what’s your motivation?”

Geralt raised a thick eyebrow.

“Is that really all necessary?”

Jaskier gave an enthusiastic nod.

“Absolutely,” he insisted. “I want people to feel like they know you – Witchers still have a bad rep, even after all these years. What I want to do with this is to show them what it’s like being you, getting up every day and fighting monsters. Having a background to go off, well, it…”

“Humanises me?”

Geralt tilted his head to the side, scrutinising Jaskier’s face.

“That…wasn’t what I was going to say…”

Yes, it was.

All Witchers had started off human. The knowledge of how to make a Witcher had been lost over ninety years ago, but it was common knowledge that the process started with a human child. Whatever was done to them along the way; whatever mutations happened in their bodies, they were human at their core and Jaskier knew people forgot that.

Geralt sighed, heavily.

“Why are you doing this anyway?” he asked. “What do you get out of this?”

Jaskier took a sip of his pint as he considered bullshitting again. He could tell the Witcher anything really – that he was repaying a life debt; that he was doing this out of the goodness of his heart…but none of it would be true. Jaskier decided to be honest. Well…mostly honest.

“Look,” began Jaskier, seriously, “I don’t have an awful lot going for me right now, okay? I’m barely scraping a living writing bits of tat for bollocks publications, and I’m supplementing that trying to scratch up gigs from my hobby. I need a break…and I think you do too.”

Geralt’s scowl deepened.

“I don’t need anything,” he grumbled quietly.

Jaskier snorted.

“Bollocks,” exclaimed Jaskier a little too loudly. The pub wasn’t exactly busy at that time of the day, but of the few that occupied the bar stools and dark booths, all the heads turned to joining Geralt in his scowling. Jaskier gave them a small wave of apology and looked at Geralt again, lowering his voice. “Everybody needs something. What have  _ you _ got going for you, eh? Outside of the monsters, do you have a hobby? Friends? Do you even own a pet?”

Geralt exhaled slowly through his nose; jaw tensing as he looked away.  _ That hit a nerve _ , thought Jaskier. He’d pegged Geralt for a loner the second he’d seen him across the bar on Saturday night, and now Jaskier was sure he was right – outside of his job, Geralt had nothing going on. The Witcher needed Jaskier just as much as Jaskier needed him.

“Give me a chance,” Jaskier said, softly. “This arrangement can be mutually beneficial, Geralt…if you could just trust me…”

He watched Geralt stare into the orange fire to the side of them, thick fingers stroking up the smooth glass of his pint. Suddenly, Geralt began to laugh; the sound rumbling low in his chest; lips curling up slightly. Jaskier was taken aback.

“What’s funny?”

Geralt shook his head, turning back to look at him.

“You,” he replied, “bullshitting Calanthe like that; manipulating the facts to get what you want – you’re ballsy, I’ll give you that.”

“Thanks…I guess,” Jaskier muttered. His heart thumped hard in his chest. Maybe being honest wasn’t the best plan. “Are you going to tell Calanthe?”

Geralt looked at him, hard; those golden eyes boring into him until Jaskier squirmed uncomfortably.

“No,” Geralt replied, eventually. “She’d probably have your balls for breakfast if she thought you were making a fool of her.”

Jaskier let out a sigh of relief and watched as Geralt raised his glass to his lips and drank; throat bobbing once, twice, thrice as he swallowed the strong amber ale before setting it down again. The silence between them was heavy and Jaskier found himself chewing on his lip as he nervously waited for Geralt to reach a conclusion.

“Fine.”

“Fine?” Jaskier repeated, perking up.

“Fine,” Geralt confirmed. “I’ll go along with it…for a few weeks.”

Jaskier’s anxiety knot dissolved in an instant, replaced by the soft glow of relief and the breathlessness of excitement. He drummed his hands delightedly on the table and beamed happily at Geralt who already looked like he was regretting his decision.

“Thank you!”

“Hmm,” replied Geralt.

This was happening. It was really happening! This was going to be the making of him – of them both, he was sure of it. Bounding up, he slipped his phone from his trouser pocket and skirted to Geralt’s side of the table.

“What the fuck…?”

“Selfie!” enthused Jaskier, dropping to one knee beside the Witcher and holding his phone up above them both.

He couldn’t have aimed for a better image – Jaskier beaming happily whilst Geralt looked confused over his shoulder. Jaskier grinned.

“Oh, I love it,” he said as he slid back into his seat. “That’s a keeper.”

Geralt shook his head again, draining his pint in one smooth gulp as Jaskier played around with filters, happily. This was going to be epic. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Toss a Comment to your Writer for she thrives on affection ❤️ Thank you!


	3. The Tale of the Kikimore and Chicken Nuggets

Work was slow for a Witcher these days and Geralt was acutely aware of it with every passing day. Monsters were dying out and Geralt was fast coming to the conclusion that soon there would be no need for him in this world. The mages like Triss would always have a place as powerful channellers of Chaos, their knowledge of spells and herbs and potions benefiting humanity until the end but Witchers…well, they were a rare species these days and their usefulness wearing thin. Geralt wondered if that was one of the main reasons he’d conceded to being Jaskier’s muse – to feel like he was contributing _something_ useful to the world again.

Jaskier was…a peculiar one. The journalist was the first person Geralt had met in a long time that didn’t seem uneasy around him. That Saturday night in the bar, Jaskier had caught Geralt’s eyes and smiled; had actually come over to speak to him…and now Geralt couldn’t seem to get rid of him. He’d spent hours in Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese with the journalist chattering excitedly, his cornflower-blue eyes shining with zeal as he asked question after question until Geralt’s head ached and he made his excuses to leave. Geralt supposed it was only a taster of his imminent future.

He rolled into the office of Tuesday morning to find Triss smirking at him over the top of her computer.

“Good morning, sunshine,” she trilled. “Where’s your shadow?”

Geralt dumped his swords by his desk and sat heavily in his chair, regretting it as he heard it squeak dangerously under his weight.

“I’m not spending a minute more with that man than I need to,” Geralt grumbled.

Triss grinned.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s annoying,” Geralt replied with a scowl, “and he never shuts up, he just goes on and on…”

“I think he’s sweet,” Triss interrupted him, “and he’s actually very funny and intelligent. I think he could be good for you, so I don’t know why you have your knickers in such a twist about it all. “

Geralt growled, low and deep in his throat as he turned on his computer monitor.

“My knickers aren’t twisted,” he muttered, “and if you like him so much, why can’t he follow _you_ around?”

Triss smiled, smugly.

“Because I’m not a handsome Witcher,” she replied.

“Neither am I,” scoffed Geralt.

Triss sighed, rolling her eyes as she turned her attention back to her computer screen. Geralt let out a very deep and very audible huff and slinked down in his chair as his computer whirred slowly to life.

 _I think he could be good for you_ …

Her words kept circling around Geralt’s brain no matter how hard he tried to push them out. Geralt had no idea what Triss meant by that; couldn’t possibly fathom why having the human equivalent of an overexcited Labrador puppy following him around on a daily basis would be ‘good for him’. Geralt liked working alone. He was better on his own – faster, stronger, less distracted – and the last thing he needed was somebody getting in the way; somebody to be responsible for.

The soft beep of the radio on his desk followed by the crackle of static snapped him out of it as he heard his name called out by a panicked-sounding officer on the other end. Sighing heavily, Geralt reached for the radio.

“Receiving, over,” he said.

“Yeah, Inspector? We’ve got an issue here in the tunnels at Deptford, over.”

Geralt looked at Triss, who raised her eyebrows quizzically.

“Tunnels?” Geralt enquired.

“The drainage system, sir,” clarified the officer.

 _Lovely_ , thought Geralt. There was nothing less pleasant for a Tuesday morning than to trudge around in London’s 150 year old sewers searching for a monster. Still, he supposed it was all part and parcel of the job.

“Any idea what we’re looking at?” asked Geralt; already getting up from his chair.

“Well…” the officer replied, hesitantly, “you’re the expert here, sir…but its…I mean…it attacked an engineer below the pumping station and he described it as…half cockroach, half spider?”

 _Kikimora_.

There were several monsters who liked the dark and the damp; fewer who favoured swampy regions, and even fewer that could be described as such. It sounded very much to Geralt that a Kikimore warrior had ventured into the sewer system at Deptford, but the big question was why? Kikimore warriors protected their queen and defended their workers – it was odd to see one on it’s own, away from its colony. Still, if it was attacking engineers, Geralt had to stop it before it got any further into London.

“Secure the area,” Geralt said into the radio as he opened the bottom drawer of his desk and dragged out a large black backpack that clinked with the telltale sound of glass. “Don’t let anyone near the place until I get there. Over.”

Hurriedly, he clipped the radio onto the waistband of his jeans and unzipped the backpack, rifling through the assortment of corked glass phials with one hand.

“Kikimora?” asked Triss.

“Kikimora,” Geralt confirmed.

“Need any help?”

Geralt unearthed a green potion and stuffed it in the pocket of his leather jacket.

“I can manage,” he replied as he closed the bag and shoved it unceremoniously back into the drawer.

Triss nodded.

“Good, because if I’m honest, I really don’t want to go.”

Geralt felt himself smile in spite of himself as he hoisted his steel and silver swords into place. He appreciated the offer – Triss was decent at fighting monsters and she’d helped him in the past, but one Kikimore warrior was simple enough to deal with and he’d be faster on his own.

“Are you going to call Jaskier?” Triss added, innocently.

Geralt halted.

“Fuck,” he muttered.

He didn’t want to. He _really_ didn’t want to, but if it was a choice between Jaskier’s well-intended enthusiasm or Calanthe’s unpredictable wrath, well…Geralt supposed he’d take his chances with Jaskier. Besides, Geralt had made a deal and he wasn’t one to go back on his word, no matter how unpleasant the task.

With another heavy sigh, he fished his phone from his jeans pocket and headed out of the office, bringing up the journalist’s number as he trudged to the car.

____

Deptford was on the entire other side of London to where Jaskier lived in Camden. The only real blessing was that it would take him almost the same amount of time to get there on the tube as it would take Geralt to drive through London traffic from Scotland Yard.

Jaskier had been setting up the new page for the blog when Geralt had called to inform him of the new case and honestly, Jaskier could barely contain his excitement.

 _You’ll need boots_ , Geralt had told him – _we’re going in the tunnels_.

He’d pulled on his sturdiest pair of boots and grabbed the backpack he had ready – the one containing various cameras for still shots and for filmmaking, plus a tablet and portable keyboard and several cables for editing on the move. The damn thing weighed a ton but Jaskier didn’t know what he’d need and he’d rather take everything then be caught out without the one thing that would make all the difference.

Jaskier caught the Northern Line from Camden Town station to London Bridge, then the Thameslink towards Deptford, stopping only at a small local artisan café to pick up coffee before walking the rest of the way to the pump house.

Geralt Rivia wasn’t a difficult man to spot – six foot tall and dressed entirely in black, standing by the open door of an unmarked police car and scraping his white hair up out of his face and into a bun. Jaskier felt himself light up like Christmas at the sight of him.

“GERALT!” he hailed loudly, waving with his free hand over the police cordons.

Geralt Rivia looked up and frowned at him, and for one awful moment Jaskier firmly believed Geralt was going to ignore him. He was relieved when Geralt nodded at the uniformed copper to wave him though.

“What the fuck are you wearing?” asked Geralt as Jaskier approached, coffees in hand.

Jaskier looked down at himself in confusion.

“What’s wrong with it?” he asked.

Geralt’s frown deepened a he looked Jaskier’s outfit over from top to bottom.

“You look like a baby prostitute,” Geralt muttered. “Did you not hear me when I said we’re going into the tunnels?”

“Tunnels as in…?”

“Sewers, Jaskier,” sighed Geralt.

“Ah…”

 _Yes, perhaps I should have worn something a little more practical_ , thought Jaskier; plucking absently at his embroidered blue silk Gucci bomber. His artfully ripped jeans were probably also less than practical, as was the thin summer t-shirt he’d thrown on before leaving his flat, but at least he was wearing the boots.

“Oh well,” he said with a shrug. “Never mind. I brought coffee!”

Geralt’s gold eyes shifted from Jaskier’s inappropriate attire to the cardboard carrier holding two coffees.

“Hmm.”

“Now, I took a complete gamble, but you look like a man who enjoys his coffee strong and black, am I right?”

Jaskier had spent exactly two hours with the Witcher and in that time he’d learned absolutely nothing personal at all. Geralt Rivia had been incredibly stingy with details surrounding his career and positively tight-lipped about anything at all personal, but Jaskier was observant. He knew that Geralt preferred amber ale to pale ale; that he liked quiet, warm, homely pubs over busy and popular bars; that he dressed simply and practically in clothes that he could comfortably move in and layer up if needed. Jaskier made an educated guess that he’d prefer his coffee strong and simple too.

Geralt stared at the proffered coffee cup.

“I prefer milk and two sugars,” replied Geralt, gruffly.

Jaksier’s face fell before he could stop it, feeling like a balloon that Geralt had just stabbed with a pin and he was quickly deflating on the spot.

“Oh…” Jaskier said softly.

He watched, dumbstruck as Geralt took the coffee from his hand, sniffed it curiously, and then started to drink it anyway. Jaskier was absolutely confused; left standing staring as Geralt chugged the black coffee without breaking eye contact.

“What’s in the backpack?”

“Uh…” Jaskier mumbled, suddenly realising he was just standing there like a complete twat, “Cameras…”

“Nope,” replied Geralt.

“What?”

“I said no,” Geralt repeated, reaching out to tug the bag strap from Jaskier’s shoulder.

Jaskier grabbed hold to stop him.

“Yeah, I heard you – I meant why not?”

Geralt raised an eyebrow.

“Are any of those cameras waterproof?”

Jaksier blinked.

“Uh…”

“You’re about to take, what I’m guessing is several grand’s worth of equipment into a sewer. That’s a bad idea.”

“But I have to take a camera!” Jaskier insisted. “How the bloody hell am I supposed to document this without a camera?”

“Do I look like I give a fuck?” answered Geralt as he tugged the bag strap again, pulling it free of Jaskier’s shoulder and tossing it into his car.

 _Right_ , thought Jaskier as he drew himself up with as much dignity as he could manage. He was just going to have to film this whole thing on his phone. His phone was largely waterproof and had a pretty decent camera on it. He could do this – adapt; overcome.

“Alright,” he said as he fished his phone from his pocket and opened the video app, “what is it we’re hunting?”

He pressed record as Geralt drained his coffee and tossed the empty cup onto the passenger seat of the car.

“A Kikimore warrior,” Geralt replied, reaching for his swords and effortlessly strapping them into place. “At least that’s what I think it is. It’s probably wandered too far from its colony and found itself here at the arse end of London’s drainage system…”

He trailed off and frowned as he realised Jaskier was filming him, letting out an exasperated sigh.

“Just…stick close to me and if you see a monster hurtling down a tunnel towards you…run.”

____

Geralt moved slowly, one foot in front of the other through the inches of sewer water with his silver sword drawn in a defensive stance. His enhanced eyesight pierced the gloom of the drainage tunnel, taking in the yellow brick walls and the curve of the ceiling in the distance, stretching far into the darkness.

Behind him, he heard Jaskier stumble and the splash of water as the journalist landed awkwardly.

“Fuck!” Jaskier hissed. “Oh…fuck. Ew. Ew…ew…ew…”

“Shhh!”

Geralt glanced back over his shoulder just in time to see Jaskier shaking stagnant water from his hand with a look of disgust. Geralt rolled his eyes and continued forward. So much for the element of surprise – this Kikimora was going to hear them coming from a mile off.

“Sorry,” Jaskier whispered, loudly, “It’s just so…wet down here.”

“It’s a sewer,” Geralt deadpanned.

With Jaskier still muttering his distaste, Geralt pushed on. It had been about thirty years since he’d last encountered a Kikimore warrior, back in the 1980s where there had been rapid urban expansion and many of the wet areas on the outskirts of London had been drained to make way for housing. Kikimora had been all but wiped out in these parts – the flesh-eating monsters had no place in this modern age, many of them having been destroyed by fire and their marshland turned into serviceable ground for housing..

These days, a small colony was to be found north of the city towards Walthamstow and the Lea Valley. The area was very restricted and the colony size kept in check by the government. If this warrior was from that colony, then God only knows what it was doing this far south in Deptford, alone. It had crossed the entirety of London.

A noise to the right made Geralt stop, gesturing to Jaskier to stop muttering and get low. The distinct scuttling echoed off the yellow brick tunnel, distorted by the thick water and the grime lining the walls. Geralt adjusted his grip on the silver sword and waited.

He felt the vibration in the water before he saw it – an enormous insectoid that took up the whole width and height of the tunnel with its body and long, spider-like legs. Geralt parried the strike he’d anticipated was coming and heard the kikimore warrior scream.

It lunged for him and he dodged, slicing clean through a leg and rebounding off the wall as the kikimore sprayed a stream of acid in his direction. Geralt had known the second it attacked that this was no lost warrior who had wandered from its colony and trying to find its way home – this one was hunting for fresh meat.

He heard Jaskier shout behind him but Geralt couldn’t stop to check on him, not with the kikimore bearing down on him; screaming in pain and pure rage. It raised its sharp leg to strike at him again and Geralt hurled the phial of green liquid at it, hitting it square in the face with a smash of glass.

The kikimore warrior screeched louder, the sound echoing off the walls as it reared up in agony. The green liquid was eating into the kikimore’s eyes, melting them with a stench of rotting meat so overpowering it made Geralt’s stomach turn. Swallowing the bile that rose to his throat, Geralt took advantage of the distraction and thrust his sword through the creature’s chest.

It thrashed like a worm on a hook, the silver fast corroding its flesh. Geralt twisted the blade once, and then pulled it free. The kikimore slumped into the stinking water, dead.

“That…was… _incredible_!”

Geralt spun around, eyes searching the gloom for Jaskier and finding him half submerged in the festering stinking sewer water, his phone still held high in his hand and a look of awe on his face.

“Are you hurt?” Geralt asked.

From the ground, Jaskier laughed.

“I’m soaked to the bone, covered in kikimore guts, my boots are waterlogged, and my jacket is completely fucking ruined…”

“ _Are you hurt?_ ” Geralt repeated more forcefully.

Jaskier grinned at him.

“No,” he replied, “I’m just great. Bit hungry, actually.”

Geralt stared at him in disbelief. The man was quite obviously crazy – witnessing a Witcher gut a kikimore in a sewer, surrounded by the stench of faeces and death, and then claiming to be hungry. Geralt offered his hand to help Jaskier up.

“Hungry for what?”

“Oooh,” replied Jaskier as Geralt hauled him to his feet, “chicken nuggets – box of twenty with a chocolate milkshake and…at least five sweet and sour sauces.”

Geralt grimaced.

“That’s disgusting,” he muttered.

“It’s delicious,” said Jaskier with a grin.

Geralt sighed at him and began walking back down the tunnel the way they’d come.

“You really expect me to go through a drive through with you looking like that?”

Jaskier shrugged.

“Eh…it’s South London. They’ve seen worse.”

___

Notting Hill was much closer than Camden and Geralt had only managed to drive that far before deciding he couldn’t be in close proximity to Jaskier any longer. Hence, Jaskier found himself in Geralt’s flat for the second time in so many days, bundled into a hot shower while Geralt put Jaskier’s clothes in the washer.

The shower was wonderfully hot and Jaskier used far more of Geralt’s shower gel than he really needed, making sure every last molecule of the sewers and the kikimore was washed down the drain.

“Here,” said Geralt, gruffly; holding out something large and black as Jaskier exited the bathroom, rubbing his hair dry with a towel.

“What’s that?”

“A shirt,” Geralt muttered.

It was in fact a cotton button-down, well-worn and soft against Jaskier’s freshly scrubbed skin. It was far too big for him, slipping off one shoulder as Jaskier moved to climb onto Geralt’s bed. Jaskier smiled to himself as he pulled his box of nuggets into his lap and opened three of his sauces, his stomach grumbling aggressively. He could hear Geralt in the shower, grunting occasionally as the water cascaded off his body like a waterfall.

Jaskier had never seen anything like that kikimore warrior – it was straight out of his worst childhood nightmares with its spindly legs ending in needle-sharp points; its many gleaming eyes and gaping maw with sharp pincers reeking of death.

He’d also never seen anything quite as incredible as Geralt Rivia leaping through the stinking water with the flash of a silver sword; the way he twisted and turned with the ease and grace of a dancer as the kikimore tried desperately to skewer him. Jaskier played the video over and over again on his phone, mesmerised by the way Geralt moved as he fought the creature before him. It was beautiful.

“This is amazing,” he mumbled around a chicken nugget as Geralt emerged, dripping and steaming from the shower. “People are going to love this.”

“Hmm,” replied Geralt.

Jaskier couldn’t help but stare. Scars danced across Geralt’s skin – some white, some pink; some clean cut and some jagged like he’d been ripped open. They covered his arms and his chest; peppered his broad back and stomach; criss-crossing over muscle.

“What?”

Jaskier blinked, his eyes meeting curious gold as he dragged his gaze from Geralt’s body. He hastily swallowed his chicken nugget.

“Are they all from monsters?” asked Jaskier. “The scars, I mean.”

Geralt pulled a black t-shirt from a drawer and glanced down at his body.

“Some of them,” he replied quietly.

Jaskier watched them disappear under black cotton as Geralt slipped the t-shirt over his head and looked away, stuffing another chicken nugget in his mouth.

“So,” Geralt continued as he dragged out a fresh pair of jeans, “exactly how long are you planning on doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Following me around.”

Jaskier chewed, thoughtfully.

“I dunno,” he replied, honestly.

In truth, Jaskier had seen Geralt as he meal ticket – the story that could make his name and cement his reputation as a serious journalist. The entire premise of a monster hunter was exciting to Jaskier and deeply fascinating. He planned on doing this as long as Geralt would let him.

“Fine,” Geralt conceded; sighing as he reached over Jaskier’s chicken nugget box.

“Fuck off!” Jaskier exclaimed, hugging remaining nuggets protectively, moving them out of Geralt’s reach. “These are mine! If you were hungry you should have got your own!”

Geralt scowled.

“There are twenty,” he said. “You can’t possibly eat twenty!”

“Just watch me,” Jaskier replied, hastily stuffing the remaining nuggets in his mouth as Geralt stared at him in horror.

Jaskier didn’t care how amazing Geralt was at fighting monsters – he wasn’t getting anywhere near Jaskier’s food for love nor money. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I had this idea of Jaskier sitting cross-legged wearing one of Geralt's shirts that's too big and hanging off him, showing that chest hair off; freshly showered and his hair drying in fluffy tufts and STUFFING CHICKEN NUGGETS IN HIS MOUTH LIKE A FERAL TODDLER and I have no idea why this is so sexy to me, but I couldn't get it out of my head. 
> 
> Also, FUCK this fic is so damn English.


	4. The Wolf and The Hirikka

_“There’s a world that lies in conjunction with ours, just beneath the surface. A world that used to be more prominent; more frightening but now it’s largely forgotten. It’s a world of demons and magic and monsters - all things we fail to notice these days in modern life, but we only have that luxury because of a small few that protect us from it._

_We’ve all heard the stories - the legends; the myths. We know who they are and what they do, but none of us fully appreciate their role in this modern age; now that the monsters and magic are fading away._

_I almost died a few nights ago. I would have if it hadn’t been for one man - a man still dedicated to hunting down the monsters and keeping us safe. His name is Geralt Rivia, and he’s a Witcher.”_

Geralt frowned as he walked into his office to find his colleagues crowded around Triss’s monitor and listening to a girl, dramatically reading aloud.

“What the fuck…?”

His colleagues scattered, hurrying back to their desks as Triss grinned at him.

“Ciri has been reading Jaskier’s blog to us,” said Triss.

The girl looked up from the monitor and beamed at Geralt. Ciri was twelve and the granddaughter of Superintendent Calanthe – a sweet, funny little girl with blonde hair and green eyes; she was the opposite of her grandmother in almost every way except for the inherited sarcasm.

Ciri had essentially grown up within the walls of Scotland Yard. Fascinated at a very young age with monsters and magic, she’d found the Supernatural Crimes department and immediately latched onto Geralt and Triss and the others; sitting with them and enquiring about their cases; reading books of spells and ancient bestiaries. They all loved her; Geralt included.

“I love it,” Ciri sighed, dreamily. “The way he talks about you saving his life – how you vanquished two demons while he lay paralysed and helpless…”

“He’s exaggerating,” replied Geralt, gruffly. “Jaskier was unconscious by the time I intervened – he’s got absolutely no idea what happened.”

He dumped his swords unceremoniously by the side of his desk and sat heavily in his chair, grimacing at the strained squeak of the springs under his weight. One day he’d remember to just sit down gently.

Ciri smiled at him and rolled her green eyes good-naturedly.

“It’s still _very_ heroic,” she said, “Jaskier’s writing is pure poetry – it sounds like he _adores_ you.”

“Hmm,” replied Geralt.

“For example,” Ciri continued, “when he talks about you fighting the Kikimore warrior, there’s an entire paragraph about how graceful and elegant you are; how fast, how strong…”

Geralt growled, silencing the snickers from his colleagues and wiping the smiles from their faces.

“…it absolutely sounds like he fancies you,” Ciri continued, unheeded.

Normally, Geralt didn’t blush but he could definitely feel his cheeks growing warm as Ciri continued to read snippets from the blog that made Geralt sound like some kind of Arthurian knight or legendary heroic warrior of old. If it had been anyone else reading these things aloud, Geralt would have picked them up by the scruff of their neck and thrown them out of the office…but as it was Ciri, he stayed where he was and bore the embarrassment.

He hated this – hated that he’d been convinced to be the subject of Jaskier’s blog; hated that its was a source of amusement for his colleagues and for Ciri. Geralt hated that Ciri was very probably right about Jaskier fancying him, as he’d _definitely_ approached Geralt with intent on the Saturday night in question and done everything possible since to insert himself into Geralt’s life.

“That’s ridiculous,” muttered Geralt; ignoring the look that passed between Ciri and Triss, “and you’re going to be late for school.”

Ciri sighed dramatically and slid from Triss’s chair.

“All I’m saying, Geralt,” she said lightly as she grabbed her school bag and straightened her pleated skirt, “is that it’s a really good blog. Jaskier is a very talented storyteller and he makes you sound awesome. I especially like the line ‘ _he leapt at the kikimore like a great white wolf springing from the darkness with his teeth bared_ …’”

Geralt grimaced at the metaphor.

“Oh fuck, that’s just pretentio…hang on…wait…he makes me _sound_ awesome?”

“Yeah,” Ciri replied, innocently, “considering you’re really more of a crotchety old mongrel than a majestic wolf.”

Geralt blinked as Triss spat her coffee all over her desk and proceeded to howl with laughter. Ciri grinned and hoisted her backpack onto her shoulders. So this is what his life came to – getting roasted by a twelve year old. Ciri was just lucky that children weren’t classed as monsters, although Geralt wasn’t absolutely sure they shouldn’t be.

He opened his mouth to respond and then stopped as Jaskier appeared in the doorway, two takeaway coffees in hand.

“Have I missed something?” Jaskier asked cheerfully; his cornflower-blue eyes surveying the room and taking in the ducked heads and hidden grins of the supernaturally prepossessed coppers.

Geralt could feel his own ears burning as a devious grin spread across Ciri’s face. His stomach tightened in a knot as he watched her bound over to the journalist.

“You must be Jaskier,” she exclaimed.

Jaskier’s face lit up.

“I am!” he replied.

Ciri beamed.

“Huge fan of the blog,” said Ciri, swaying slightly on the spot. “It’s going to be massive. I’m late for school – bye!”

Geralt groaned and put his head into his hands as Ciri darted around Jaskier, turned, and mouthed ‘ _he’s cute_ ’ as she gave Geralt a double thumbs up. Jaskier was thankfully too pleased with himself to notice, but Geralt was hyper aware that Triss had seen it by the way she was doubled up at her desk, trying desperately to stifle her laughter with her fist in her mouth.

Silently cursing the twelve year old granddaughter of his boss, Geralt took a deep breath and ignored the heat in his face as Jaskier approached his desk; blue eyes bright and alert.

“What are you doing here?” groused Geralt. “I said I would call you when I had a case.”

“I’m just excited to see where you work,” replied Jaskier, “and to see who else the Met employs in this field. You guys really are in the basement here aren’t you? Tucked away…in the corner. Who was that delightful young lady by the way?”

“Cirilla,” muttered Geralt, “Chief Superintendent Calanthe’s granddaughter.”

“Really?” Jaskier enthused.

Geralt watched as Jaskier pulled up a seat; the snickers and titters of his colleagues and Ciri’s ‘ _he_ _absolutely fancies you_ ’ still ringing in his ears. This was absolutely the last thing he needed – it was bad enough being subjected to the humiliation of being Jaskier’s muse without the absurdity of Jaskier possibly having some ridiculous crush on him.

“I brought you coffee,” Jaskier announced, oblivious to Geralt’s musings. “Milk and two sugars, yes?”

Geralt didn’t really know why he said it. Maybe it was because of what Ciri had said or maybe it was because Jaskier’s proud expression irritated him, but he looked disdainfully at the coffee cup and muttered,

“I prefer hazelnut lattes.”

He watched Jaskier’s face fall again and he almost chastised himself over the small flash of sadistic amusement he felt at Jaskier’s evident disappointment.

“Mother of J…” Jaskier murmured, rolling his cornflower-blue eyes heavenward. “Alright. Hazelnut latte next time. Got it.”

Jaskier sighed heavily as he slumped in his chair, resignedly watching as Geralt took the coffee from him and drank it anyway, just as he had the black coffee of Tuesday. 

“So,” continued Jaskier, the strain evident in his cheerful tone, “it doesn’t seem to be a big department.”

“There’s not enough work to keep more of us busy,” Geralt replied over the rim of his paper coffee cup, “Like you said, the monsters are all dying out…and so are the monster hunters.”

Jaskier bit his lip and glanced down at his own coffee.

“Are you saying you don’t get a lot of cases?”

Geralt gave a derisive snort,

“We get plenty of cases,” he said, “I just don’t think that we get enough of the ones you’d find exciting. I doubt most of them would make it onto your… _blog_.”

Jaskier looked at him, brightening.

“You’ve seen it then?”

“No,” grumbled Geralt.

Disappointment registered on Jaskier’s face again, and Geralt did have the grace to feel a little bad about it this time. He was searching for something less abrasive to say when he was rescued by the hiss of radio static and a report of a disturbance by some sort of monster at the North Middlesex Golf Club in Finchley.

“There you go,” Geralt addressed Jaskier once he’d confirmed the call received, “there’s always something. Let’s go.”

____

Jaskier spent the entire drive to Finchley asking Geralt questions. He’d seen a maximum of six desks in Geralt’s department and not all of them occupied – it fascinated him that such a small group of people were wholly responsible for every since magical and monster-related incident in the greater London area, their jurisdiction often spilling into neighbouring counties.

“So, if there was a harpy on the loose in…say…Berkshire…?”

“Then they’d most likely send me to Berkshire,” replied Geralt, sounding resigned.

“What about north of London?” asked Jaskier, “like Cambridge?”

“Possibly…”

“Not that I ever saw any monsters in Cambridge,” Jaskier continued in the next breath, “I mean, I met a satyr at a really wild party in my second year of uni, and there was an Elf who curated the Museum of Classical Archaeology…”

“You probably scared all the monsters away with how much you talk,” groused Geralt.

Jaskier sighed. If Geralt had been a better conversationalist and more forthcoming with his information, Jaskier was sure he wouldn’t talk nearly as much. He’d never liked silence – it was far too loud and Jaskier felt obligated to fill it.

It wasn’t his fault that he wanted to know _everything_. Getting Geralt to give him a bit of background had been like drawing blood from a stone, but Jaskier had managed to glean that Geralt had been around for a while. He very possibly had been born before the turn of the 20th century when monsters were more commonplace and he was paid by the locals to rid them of a pest problem.

“Sorry,” Jaskier quietly conceded. “I just…it’s fascinating and I want to know…” he trailed off and sighed, “never mind.”

As much as he wanted answers; wanted material he could use to spin a good story, he walked a fine line with Geralt. One word too many and Geralt could throw Jaskier out on his arse and then where would he be? Jaskier needed this to work out more than anything and he couldn’t afford to fuck it up.

He felt golden eyes flicker towards him before they focussed back on the road ahead. Geralt let out a resigned sigh.

“Most big cities have their own people to deal with supernatural incidents,” Geralt explained. “They’re mostly mages, and mages are fine dealing with most things but…when they have a big scary monster, they like to call in a Witcher. There are three of us in this country and one in Ireland…”

Jaskier turned his head and stared at Geralt in surprise. Those gold eyes were still fixed firmly on the road ahead, but his jaw had relaxed slightly and Jaskier stopped short of breathing a sigh of relief.

“So, there’s essentially four people who deal with all the monster related incidents in the country?”

“Essentially,” agreed Geralt.

Jaskier let out a low whistle of awe.

“Do Witchers ever…you know…retire?”

“Only when they slow and get killed.”

So that was it – four people who protected the British public from being ripped apart by monsters and there were no other to replace them if they died. And yet people still hated Witchers; still feared them; still claimed they were emotionless, unfeeling mutants no better than the creatures they hunted. Jaskier had only known Geralt Rivia for four days and already he knew that was bollocks. Yes, he was prickly and preferred his own company, but he wasn’t emotionless.

There was already a police car waiting as they drove into the golf club; the two coppers looking nervous as Geralt climbed out of the driver’s seat.

“What have we got?” he asked.

The coppers glanced at each other, the look that passed between them almost like a coin toss as to who would speak up.

“Not sure sir,” replied the female PC, “we got a report of some kind of creature in the air conditioning vents – humanoid shape and covered in brown fur but…”

“So you have no idea,” Geralt muttered, “that’s very helpful.”

“Do _you_ have any ideas, Geralt?” Jaskier piped up.

The Witcher raised an eyebrow at him.

“It could be anything really,” admitted Geralt, “our best bet is to just go in and look.”

Jaskier could barely contain his excitement as he selected a camcorder from his backpack and casually filmed Geralt getting ready for the hunt. He was honestly magnificent – the thick, borg-lined leather jacket that stretched over his shoulders and his white-blond hair falling around his face as he leaned over and rummaged through a black bag full of potions and elixirs; two swords of silver and steel that probably each weighed as much as Jaskier did strapped to his body.

He could have watched Geralt all day – the way he moved with grace and precision; everything so deliberate and not an ounce of energy wasted. Jaskier trained the camera on Geralt’s face as he selected a potion; his brow furrowed in concentration as he held it up to the light and inspected the flecks of amber inside. He desperately wanted to know how he could tell which potion was which inside those unmarked phials; how he could tell that this was the one he was after and not one of the other bottles that looked identical to Jaskier.

“What’s that?” Jaskier asked as Geralt gave a satisfied nod and stuffed it inside his jacket pocket.

“Sleeping draught,” replied Geralt.

“You’re not planning on using that on me, are you?” said Jaskier, warily eyeing the phial.

Geralt gave him the tiniest smile – more a twitch of his lips than a smile really; his golden eyes registering amusement.

“That depends on whether or not you behave,” he replied, quietly.

Jaskier bit his lip as Geralt adjusted his swords and began in the direction of the Club House. It’s not like Jaskier ever _intended_ on misbehaving…it’s just that he attracted trouble whether he wanted to or not. He was a trouble magnet.

The hunt for the mysterious creature wasn’t anywhere near as fun as trudging through the darkness in pursuit of the kikimora. Geralt swept the entire club, inspecting all the nooks and crannies where a frightened creature might hide and finding nothing.

“It must have made its way outside,” Geralt grumbled before trudging through the large glass doors and onto a decked area.

Jaskier doubtfully scanned the flat green that stretched out for what seemed like miles.

“It’s probably long gone by now,” replied Jaskier.

“Hmm.”

He’d hoped that Geralt’s non-committal sound had been one of agreement but he was sadly mistaken as the Witcher strode across the decking and down onto the grass of the golf course. Sighing, Jaskier followed him.

Fuck, but this was boring.

At first, Jaskier had trudged after Geralt, filming the whole time and half expecting something to leap out at them at any given second. After half an hour of absolutely nothing, Jaskier gave up and sat down on the grass, setting his camera to the side in favour of flicking through his instagram feed on his phone.

He was rather engrossed in scrolling through the cat blog posts when he heard a rustling in the bush behind him. Frowning, Jaskier glanced over his shoulder and saw the leaves move.

“Geralt!” he called, “there’s something back here!”

Jaskier stole a look in Geralt’s direction and saw the Witcher still scouring the treeline. Carefully, Jaskier stood and slipped his phone back into his jeans pocket, retrieving his camcorder and turning it on. Cautiously he approached the bush and found himself staring into the eyes of a creature - large and poignant; deep brown in colour.

“Geralt!” Jaskier called again, a little louder this time. “There’s definitely something here – I think its…it sort of looks like a faun…”

The eyes looked up at him and Jaskier felt a tug on his heartstrings. They looked sad…pitiful even, staring out from the green of the bush.

“Hello,” Jaskier greeted it softly as one would a frightened kitten. “Well aren’t you just the cutest...”

Jaskier trailed off as the creature slowly began to emerge from the greenery. It was definitely not a faun. It unfolded itself, unfurling spindly limbs and drawing itself up to the height of a grown man. It was skinny - ribs clearly visible under its thin brown fur, and when it bared its teeth and growled, Jaskier could see distinct sharp points.

He began to back away.

“...most...terrifying thing I’ve ever seen,” he continued.

The creature lolled towards him and Jaskier turned and fled.

“GERALT!”

He saw the Witcher’s head snap up from the bush he’d been inspecting; keen ears picking up on the direction of Jaskier’s shout. Jaskier ran hell for leather across the green expanse of the golf course, hoping he could outrun the gangly, horrifying creature and reach the safety of Geralt’s bulk and his silver sword.

“Kill it, kill it!” said Jaskier as he dived behind Geralt and trained his camera on the monster now lolloping across the grass towards them; spindly limbs seeming to have difficulty carrying it forward.

Geralt stood firm between Jaskier and the creature; his weapons still sheathed.

“I’m not going to kill it,” replied Geralt, quietly. “It’s not a threat.”

“It bloody looks threatening.” Jaskier scoffed.

He watched as Geralt slowly eased himself into a crouch, making himself seem small and unthreatening; golden eyes watching the monster with curiosity.

“It’s a Hirikka,” explained Geralt. “I know it from the bestiary but I’ve never seen one. They’re rare - far rarer than dragons.”

Jaskier had never heard of a hirikka, but he trusted Geralt’s encyclopaedic knowledge of monsters and mythical creatures. That was his job after all – to know what he was dealing with and how to defeat it.

“It looks like it's starving,” Geralt continued, quietly. “Have you got any food?”

Those golden eyes turned on Jaskier, who shook his head vigorously.

“No!” he replied.

Even if he had, Jaskier wasn’t going to waste his precious food on a monster. He had little enough of it as it was.

Sighing, Geralt patted down his jacket pockets and unearthed a protein bar which he quickly stripped from its wrapper. Jaskier watched as Geralt snapped it in half and then crawled forward slightly, laying it on the grass in front of the creature and retreating.

“Rarer than dragons, you said?” asked Jaskier, eying the monster as it regarded the protein bar with suspicion.

“It’s true,” Geralt replied, softly, “all but extinct these days. Just like everything else - got pushed out of its habitat and it’s been struggling to survive ever since. It probably wandered in from the surrounding countryside hoping to feed off the kitchen scraps...”

Jaskier focussed the camera in on the hirikka as it leaned down and cautiously sniffed the protein bar.

“It’s scavenging?”

Geralt nodded.

“You do what you can to survive,” he murmured; his gold eyes still focussed on the creature. “It’s not here to hurt anyone, it just wants to live. But it can’t stay here.”

Hunger overcoming suspicion, the hirikka pounced on the protein bar and gobbled it down; already eying the other half in Geralt’s hands. Slowly, Geralt slipped a hand into his jacket and pulled out the potion phial he’d pocketed earlier, pulling out the cork with his teeth.

“What are you going to do with that?” hissed Jaskier.

“The creature can’t remain here,” Geralt repeated, “and I doubt he’ll climb into the back of the car voluntarily.”

Jaskier watched as Geralt poured the amber liquid over the protein bar and set it down in the exact same manner as before. This time the hirikka didn’t hesitate and it scoffed it down in the blink of an eye.

“See, this is what it is to be a Witcher,” Geralt said quietly, almost as though he were talking to himself. “We were created to be the pest control, but really my job is knowing when to kill a monster…and when to save one.”

If Jaskier was to look back on this day, he would recognise this as the exact moment he fell in love with Geralt Rivia – crouching on the grass of a golf course as a rare, endangered creature rolled it’s sad brown eyes heavenward and keeled over; watching as Geralt scooped the hirikka up gently like it weighed no more than a feather, as tenderly as though it were a sleeping child.

Everything – absolutely everything – that people knew about Witchers was wrong. In just a few short moments, Jaksier’s world had turned on its head as he witnessed this mutant of a man do what no human in his place would have done – he saw a snarling creature with claws and fangs, and he decided to _help_ it. Anyone else would have killed it. Christ, even Jaskier had run away asking Geralt to kill the thing, but…

“Come on,” said Geralt as he hoisted the hirikka over his shoulder, “we’ll take it north, out of the city and somewhere where there’s woodland and water and a food source for it. It’s not much but it’s better than it starving to death here.”

Jaskier watched him turn and walk back towards the car with the creature trailing over his back; the camera still rolling. His heart beat fast against his ribcage as he tried to process what he’d witnessed; what this was going to mean when he posted it on his blog. The whole country had seen how strong and fast and unstoppable he was. Now they were going to see Geralt Rivia’s superhuman empathy and compassion…and the country was going to fall in love with him too. 


	5. Trouble Magnet

_ A monster in a man’s body – for centuries this has been the opinion on the Witcher – the pest control; the necessary evil to put down that which humankind cannot. _

_ Today I was confronted by a beast with long claws and sharp teeth, and I did what every rational human would do – I wanted the threat eliminated and I called for my Witcher companion to dispatch it. Geralt however did not kill the monster following me across the golf course. He did something that no human in his place would have done, and took pity on it. _

_ This creature that had frightened me so was a starving Hirikka – a beast that could be likened to the Amur Leopard in respect to its scarcity; a truly endangered species, all but gone completely but unlike the Amur Leopard the Hirikka isn’t on anybody’s endangered list; it has no protector. Except for the Witcher. _

_ It struck me as I watched Geralt Rivia that our main downfall as humans is that we seek to destroy that which we don’t understand; that which scares us. At any point in my life, I could have picked up a bestiary and read about this creature, but I did not and surely I would have been responsible for the death of a creature rarer than a dragon if it had not been for the monster hunter who stayed his hand. _

_ The history books have had it wrong this whole time – the Witcher is not humanity’s pest control…the Witcher is the protector of humanity from the monsters that would rip us to pieces, but also the protector of the creatures that humanity would rip to pieces. A protector to all can’t possibly be the monster we believe him to be. _

__

_ ~ Jaskier, The Witcher Hour _

____

Geralt rang the doorbell to the Camden flat again and sighed; checking his watch and listening to what could only be Jaskier taking the stairs two at a time to answer him. He blinked as Jaskier yanked open the door, taking in the thick woollen beanie pulled down over Jaskier’s ears, the big fluffy dressing gown wrapped around his body, thick socks…and the toothbrush stuck in his mouth.

“Thowwee,” Jaskier mumbled; white froth from the toothpaste dribbling down his chin, “Bwushing teef…”

“Yes, I can see that,” replied Geralt as Jaskier waved him in and ran back up the stairs.

Geralt could hear a tap running in the flat; the groan of old pipes and cold water flowed through them. He closed the door behind him and immediately shivered. If Geralt had thought it was cold outside, it was nothing compared to Jaskier’s flat. The temperature inside was Baltic and Geralt frowned as he slowly made his way up the stairs, feeling the damp on the walls beneath his hands. The windows in the living room were frosted up at the edges with ice crystals; his breath visible in the air.

In the short time they had known each other, Jaskier had never struck Geralt as being stingy – from his designer clothing to the artisan coffee he brought with him, Jaskier seemed fond of the good things in life…but the inside of his flat told a very different story. The heating had obviously not been turned on in quite some time as the cold had seeped into the fabric of the old couch making it damp to the touch; small patches of black mould speckled the corners of the ceiling. There were no lights on; no tv or radio playing for background; the laptop sitting on the coffee table, silent.

His frown deepening, Geralt made his way through to the kitchen when a quick perusal of the cupboards turned up very little – the only food being a loaf of cheap bread, condiments, and cooking spices. Geralt moved to the sink and leaned over to try the taps.

“Don’t turn that on!”

Geralt turned, his hand hovering above the hot water tap. Jaskier wore a look of panic that quickly smoothed out into something more playful.

“It…makes a terrible grinding noise,” Jaskier lied, “and spews out rust and all sorts. I really need to call a plumber.”

“Hmm,” replied Geralt, straightening as he took his hand away from the tap.

Jaskier smiled disarmingly.

“Sorry about that – you caught me in the middle of getting ready.”

“I texted you twenty minutes ago,” grumbled Geralt, looking over Jaskier’s dressing gown.

“Oh!” said Jaskier, hurriedly whipping the beanie from his head and running a hand over his hair, “no, I’m dressed, I just…well…”

Geralt watched as Jaskier removed the fluffy dressing down to reveal that he was in fact wearing jeans and a t-shirt underneath. He also watched the skin on Jaskier’s arms immediately rise up in gooseflesh as the cold hit him; quickly disappearing under the borg-lined denim jacket he pulled on.

“I’m ready!” Jaskier beamed as he grabbed his heavy backpack of equipment and slung it over his shoulder.

There were many questions running through Geralt’s mind but he asked none of them as he followed Jaskier down the stairs and out into the slightly warmer February air. It didn’t make any sense to him, and neither did Jaskier’s lack of explanation for his living arrangements as Jaskier tended to over share…but if was going to make the drive quieter, Geralt was definitely going to mind his own business.

“So, what’s today’s case?” asked Jaskier cheerfully as he buckled himself into the car and turned his excited cornflower-blue eyes on Geralt.

“A theft at the British Museum,” Geralt replied, pulling out of the parking spot and heading back towards central London.

Out of the corner of his eye, Geralt could see Jaskier’s shoulders slump.

“A theft?” Jaskier repeated dully. “Forgive me, Geralt, but are there no… _ normal _ coppers available to investigate this? It just seems a little beneath the capabilities of London’s top monster hunter.”

Geralt sighed.

“The theft was from the Department of Magical Artefacts,” he explained.

“Oh,” murmured Jaskier, “but surely, it would have been more beneficial to send a mage? Triss, perhaps?”

Geralt’s jaw tensed and he adjusted his grip on the steering wheel. The truth was that none of the mages had wanted anything to do with the case from the off. Even Triss had promised to do all of Geralt’s paperwork for the next week if he could take the case instead.

“The department thought it might be best for me to take it,” he replied stiffly, “The curator and I have…history.”

He regretted it the second it left his mouth. Geralt could almost feel Jaskier’s eyes light up as he turned in his seat to face him.

“ _ History _ ?” Jaskier repeated.

Geralt bit the inside of his cheek. The last thing he really wanted to do was discuss the details of his personal life with a journalist but…well, he supposed he couldn’t let Jaskier go in there completely unprepared.

“I’ve known Yennefer Vengerberg for…several years now. She’s quite a remarkable sorceress – retainer to royalty for thirty years until the shine of the courts and palaces wore off and left her bored and confined. After that, she spent a good ten years travelling the world, learning about ancient magic and curses on which she became quite the expert, and then five years ago she became the curator of the collection of magical artefacts at the British Museum.”

“And the  _ history _ ?” Jaskier prompted.

Geralt sighed.

“When she moved back to London there was a case…I enrolled Yennefer’s help with it and…”

He trailed off. There wasn’t any way to sugarcoat it – Yennefer was possibly the most chaotic mage he’d ever met. She was controlled by her emotions; her passions; her ambitions. Geralt had underestimated her inability to keep them in check and the case had suffered. The department’s mages had refused to work with her since, and Calanthe had blacklisted Yennefer from consulting for the Met…pretty much forever.

“Look,” Geralt said to Jaskier, “the only thing you really need to understand about Yennefer Vengerberg is that she is powerful, she is manipulative, and she will not hesitate to walk over your broken corpse if you get in her way.”

Jaskier sat back heavily in the passenger seat.

“And here I was thinking the history would be juicy…” he muttered.

It was, but Geralt didn’t particularly want to divulge the details to Jaskier. His relationship with Yennefer was…complicated.

“The woman sounds positively terrifying,” Jaskier added. “You’ve just got me imagining this insane old witch who would rip out my eyes if I dare look in her direction.”

Geralt started to laugh. Jaskier may have been right about the eye thing, but she’d do something much worse if she ever found out Jakier had called her an insane old witch.

____

Jaskier hadn’t been in the British Museum for years. He remembered spending time there as a kid, fascinated by the exhibits – the Egyptian mummies, the Chinese dragons, the colours and patterns that came from Africa…and the mysterious magical artefacts displayed safely behind two layers of reinforced glass.

Things hadn’t changed much despite the renovations and redesigning of the museum and it’s exhibits. The wealth of World history was still on display and those artefacts still filled Jaskier with a deep curiosity, from the plain stone tablets to painted jars, to beautiful glittering gemstones the size of Geralt’s closed fist. They all held fascinating mysteries and spells and, it was rumoured, curses. How could any inquisitive mind not be fascinated?

Geralt seemed to know his way around. After picking up visitors passes from the reception desk, Geralt led Jaskier through a maze of corridors usually off limits to the general public; past rooms that held drawers upon drawers of carefully stored artefacts from every country and every civilisation that ever was. Jaskier felt like a kid in a sweet shop – ten year old Julian Pankratz would probably have wet himself in delight.

“Where are we going, Geralt?” Jaskier enquired after five minutes of trekking through the maze of corridors. “Not that I’m  _ not _ thoroughly enjoying the behind-the-scenes tour, but…”

“Here,” Geralt interrupted him; coming to an abrupt halt outside of a closed door.

Jaskier took a deep breath, ready to come face to face with the formidable sorceress, Yennefer Vengerberg as Geralt knocked and then opened the door. The room was unoccupied; a lone, unassuming vase resting in a cleaning stand in the middle of an otherwise empty table. Geralt frowned.

“Hmm…”

“Wrong room?” asked Jaskier.

“Right room,” clarified Geralt, “but she’s not here. She knew we were coming…”

Jaskier adjusted his bag strap as Geralt scowled at his phone. If he was going to be honest with himself, Jaskier was really quite relieved.

“Maybe we should…just go back to the Yard…?”

“Stay here,” Geralt interrupted him; turning and walking away with his phone still in his hand.

Jaskier blinked at Geralt’s retreating back.

“…Okay.”

He was getting used to Geralt’s dismissive manner. True, the Witcher wasn’t exactly Prince Charming with his abrupt and somewhat prickly demeanour, but Jaskier had seen the softer side of Geralt Rivia and now he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

As Jaskier waited for Geralt to return, he pulled up a picture he’d taken of the Witcher a few days before – Geralt, in a small woodland clearing, gently laying down an unconscious Hirikka on the soft moss. Jaskier had spent most of the drive home stealing looks at Geralt - much to the Witcher’s evident annoyance – and had tried to make sense of the tightness in his chest and the breathlessness he felt.

Jaskier was very aware that he fell in love easily. He could fall in love with the colour of someone’s eyes, or the way their hair blew across their face in the wind; the way they stared out of the window on their morning commute; their scent. Most of it was fleeting, but in those small moments Jaskier could be completely, madly, and deeply in love with a person until they passed him by.

This was something altogether different – not an intense, momentary infatuation that burned within him like the fire of the sun, but something almost bone-deep that ached within him. Jaskier knew it was ridiculous, and yet the feeling gnawed at him and left him almost gasping for breath whenever he thought of Geralt Rivia’s gentleness and empathy towards that pathetic, helpless creature.

“What are you doing?”

The voice in his ear made Jaskier almost leap out of his skin – cold and hard, powerful…and female. Jaskier spun around, expecting to see a sorceress of at least seventy years with greying hair and a stern expression like the head librarian from his old school. Instead he found himself staring into the deep violet eyes of the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen in his entire life.

Jaskier’s jaw dropped and possibly for the first time in twenty eight years, words utterly failed him.

“I…w…well..I…”

Those eyes seemed to burn with a cold fire as the woman backed Jaskier up against the doorframe, pinning him there with her body. Under normal circumstances, a beautiful woman pinning him against a hard flat surface would have been quite a turn on, but in this moment Jaskier couldn’t have been any less enamoured if she’d been a grotesque creature from the black lagoon.

“Well?” she pressed; her voice like ice.

Jaskier felt like the air was being pulled from his lungs just from her proximity. He genuinely feared for his life; head slamming back against the doorframe as he grasped for oxygen and the words to respond.

“I…I’m…waiting…” Jaskier gasped.

As much as he had contemplated the method of his demise in recent months, having the hair squeezed out of him by a sexy but deadly woman was not one of the scenarios he’d envisaged, and yet here he was in what he was sure were his very last moments of life…

“Stop torturing him, Yennefer.”

Jaskier’s stuttering heart leapt upon hearing Geralt’s voice…even if Jaskier had expected him to sound more enraged than bored.

“Geralt!” Jaskier squeaked in relief.

Slowly, those terrifying violet eyes disappeared behind softly-shadowed lids as the woman blinked and suddenly Jaskier could breathe again. He sagged against the wooden doorframe, desperately sucking in air as she took a step back from him and turned to face the Witcher.

“Geralt Rivia,” she addressed him in a far warmer voice than the one she’d used with Jaskier, “Interesting that they’d send a Witcher to investigate a museum theft.”

“That’s because you scare the ever-loving shit out of everybody else,” Geralt replied with evident amusement. “It’s good to see you, Yennefer.”

Jaskier’s head snapped up.

“Yennefer?” he wheezed, wildly looking from Geralt to the scary woman and back again.

_ This _ was the formidable sorceress Geralt had told him about? By Jaskier’s reckoning, she had to be at least seventy, but the beauty before him looked no older than twenty-five; black hair cascading in soft waves over her shoulders and a smart white dress hugging her shapely figure.

Yennefer Vengerberg eyed Jaskier with a mixture of disdain and amusement before turning back to Geralt.

“Are you taking in strays now?” Yennefer asked.

Geralt’s brows shot up and the smallest smile appeared on his face.

“Something like that,” he replied quietly. “This is Jaskier – he’s a journalist.”

Yennefer’s violet eyes looked Jaskier over again and he felt an icy-cold shudder run up his spine.

“Are you covering the theft?” Yennefer addressed Jaskier with a gracefully arched eyebrow.

“Not quite,” replied Jaskier, shakily.

Geralt leaned casually against the wall, hands in his pockets and an almost imperceptible smirk playing across his lips, like he was enjoying Jaskier’s discomfort.

“Jaskier has been sanctioned by Chief Superintendent Calanthe to shadow me on cases,” Geralt explained; his voice dripping with disdain, “and to write about them in a… _ blog _ .”

Both of Yennefer’s eyebrows shot up as she turned to look back at Jaskier.

“Ah, yes,” she mused, “ _ The Witcher Hour _ , am I right? I’ve seen that – it’s not too bad, actually. A little overdramatic, but engaging.”

“Hmm,” Geralt replied.

If the compliment had come from anybody else in the entire world, Jaskier was sure he would have been beaming with pride, but somehow Yennefer’s opinion on his work left him feeling cold and hollow. Jaskier squirmed uncomfortably for a few more seconds until Yennefer turned her focus back to Geralt, and he let out a sigh of relief.

“Should we go in and I can show you what was taken?” Geralt nodded and followed her into the room, letting Jaskier bring up the rear. “Oh,” Yennefer said suddenly, turning back to Jaskier, “sorry for the…y’know.”

She gestured vaguely towards Jaskier’s throat and he almost felt it tighten again. Swallowing hard, Jaskier managed a single nod of acknowledgement which Yennefer seemed satisfied with.

It was just like every other archive room they’d passed on their way there – meticulously labelled drawers and cabinets filled with artefacts, large and small. Yennefer led them through the small labyrinth to an open drawer, void of contents.

Geralt and Jaskier both leaned forward for a closer look at the…nothing.

“This,” Yennefer began with a flourish of her hand, “used to hold the Eternal Sun.”

Jaskier and Geralt both frowned, but for absolutely different reasons.

“The Eternal Sun?” Jaskier repeated, confused.

“It’s a lamp,” Geralt explained, quietly. “Like a…miner’s Davy lamp, except it doesn’t burn oil – its source of light is magic.”

“It’s very beautiful,” added Yennefer, “and really quite unique – this little ball of swirling light that never goes out, eternally burning bright like…”

“…a sun,” finished Jaskier.

This time when Yennefer looked at him, her gaze didn’t feel like an ice spear to his soul.

“Exactly,” she murmured.

Despite himself, Jaskier felt his lips twitch upwards into a smile.

“You have a suspect in mind, don’t you?” said Geralt, frowning at Yennefer.

She straightened, squaring her shoulders and holding her head high.

“Don’t you?”

“Yennefer…” Geralt replied, softly.

Jaskier watched them both carefully – the righteous fire in Yennefer’s violet eyes and the softness in Geralt’s as he stared her down.

_ Oh _ , thought Jaskier,  _ it’s _ that  _ kind of history _ .

Of course it was. Yennefer Vengerberg was drop dead gorgeous, batshit crazy, and powerful as all Hell. She was a monster hunter’s wet dream.

“Who else would steal a Dwarven artefact?” Yennefer was saying. “Of course it’s the Dwarf Mafia!”

Jaskier blinked.

“The…what? The Dwarf  _ Mafia _ ? There’s a  _ Dwarf Mafia _ now?”

“Dwarves reclaiming their own artefact,” Geralt replied to Yennefer, completely ignoring Jaskier. “I can’t say that I blame them.”

Her Violet eyes blazed; jaw clenching in annoyance.

“The Eternal Sun was  _ given _ to the British Museum…”

“No it wasn’t,” Geralt scoffed. “It was taken, and I’m guessing without the full consent…”

Jaskier was getting a headache. They were like an old couple, bickering…actually, they  _ were _ an old couple bickering, and Jaskier was finding it hard to keep up. It was like he’d disappeared; faded into the background while Geralt and Yennefer went back and forth on the subject of the Dwarf Mafia and the Eternal Sun; Yennefer accusing and Geralt trying to talk her down.

He was bored.

Sighing heavily, Jaskier turned away from the pair and glanced around the archive room. As a kid, he’d always dreamed of being allowed back here, to view all the things the British Museum didn’t display. There was a whole wealth of knowledge hidden back here and Jaskier was determined to use his moment to explore.

He cast his gaze across the stacks of drawers and shelves, taking in the various oddments that didn’t look anything like a magical artefact should. After a moment, Jaskier’s eyes settled on the vase on the table – the one he’d seen when they’d first walked in. It was relatively plain; possibly stone and plugged with a clay stopper. Jaskier was surprised to find he’d crossed the room and was standing right in front of it, studying the bumpy grey surface.

Jaskier glanced over his shoulder and found Geralt and the sorceress still engaged in their bizarre mating ritual. Shrugging, Jaskier leaned closer to the vase. It was funny – he was sure there hadn’t been symbols etched onto the grey stone before, but now there were. They were vivid and almost seemed to be swirling across the surface; dancing. Frowning, Jaskier reached out to touch one…

Instantly the room went black, Geralt and Yennefer swallowed by the darkness and their bickering drowned out by the wail of wind. It surrounded Jaskier completely, pulling at his hair and his clothes as it swirled around him like a tornado. The wind was hot where he expected it to be icy – like being caught in a sandstorm; needle-sharp pinpricks of heat battering his skin until the pain consumed him. Jaskier opened his mouth to scream but the searing heat sucked all the oxygen from his lungs, boiling his blood.

And then it stopped. The heat; the screaming wind all ceased in an instant and Jaskier fell to the floor, unconscious.

____

It was the change in the air that alerted Yen first – the stillness like that which happens before a storm; the metallic taste on her tongue and the scent of ozone. Yennefer saw Geralt’s eyes widen and she knew he’d felt it too – the unmistakable tang of dark magic.

She turned and saw the human Geralt had brought with him; his finger outstretched towards the stone vase on the table in the middle of the room. Yennefer’s eyes widened as she saw the magic dance across the stone. That artefact had never done that before – always cold and still under her hands but now so alive as Jaskier’s finger brushed against it.

“Jaskier, no!”

Geralt’s shout echoed around the room but it was too late, even as Yen cast Aard to try and push Jaskier away from the vase. It was like a shield had surrounded him and nothing Yennefer could do could penetrate it.

“What the fuck is that thing?” growled Geralt as they both rushed forward.

“I don’t know,” Yen hissed. “We only got it in from Persia last week – this was the first day I’ve had the chance to look at it.”

As far as she’d been concerned, the vase was benign; the magic that it had contained, no more than residual. Obviously, she had been wrong. Yen cursed herself for being so careless. When she’d seen Jaskier standing at the door of her archive room, Yen had seen him as trouble. Granted, she’d initially taken him for another thief before Geralt had shown up, but therein lay the problem – she’d let her guard down in Geralt’s presence and they had fallen all to easily back into their same old routine. Yennefer had been distracted and forgotten all about the vase she’d left out in the open; forgotten all about the human who exuded natural curiosity.

Jaskier hung in the air, his toes trailing just above the floor and his blue eyes rolling back in his head. Yennefer threw spell after spell, trying to crack through the magical shield but nothing worked. Even Geralt was hurling whatever he could at it.

And then it stopped – the stillness of the air and the smell of ozone dissipating as suddenly as it had come. Jaskier dropped to the floor like a stone.

“JASKIER!”

Geralt ran across the room, scooping the human up in his arms and pushing sandy hair back from his face. Jaskier looked deathly pale, but he was breathing – his chest rising and falling rapidly. Yen cast a glance at Geralt, noticing the concern in his gold eyes as he roughly shook Jaskier’s shoulder.

“ _ Jaskier _ …” Geralt said again, his voice cracking slightly.

Yennefer blinked.  _ That’s interesting _ , she thought to herself as Jaskier groaned softly and Geralt let out an audible sigh of relief; his body suddenly releasing the tension it had been holding. In all the years she’d known Geralt Rivia, this had to be the first time she’d ever seen him so concerned about an ordinary human.

“That was a fucking stupid thing to do,” Yen said, quietly.

“He didn’t know,” Geralt murmured. “It’s my fault – he’s my responsibility, I was supposed to keep an eye on him…”

“He’s not a fucking child, Geralt,” Yen replied, “and even a child knows you just don’t  _ touch _ the magical items in the middle of the room!”

Geralt frowned at her.

“Maybe he was compelled? He was just there one minute and gone the next…”

Yennefer wouldn’t have ruled it out as impossible that Jaskier could have been drawn to the vase; that it could have called him to it. She placed her hands over Jaskier’s chest and closed her eyes; reaching out with her mind. She could feel like slight prickle of Chaos radiating from Jaskier’s skin but it was…negligible. Like background radiation.

“Whatever happened, I don’t think it’s going to leave any lasting damage,” Yennefer said.

Geralt didn’t look up from Jaskier’s face; a worried frown still etched across his brow as he watched Jaskier’s eyelids flutter.

“Are you sure?” Geralt asked.

If she was honest with herself, Yennefer wasn’t at all sure. She had no idea what had been in that vase – all her preliminary tests had shown it to be barely magical but evidently it had been more powerful than she’d first believed.

“No,” Yen replied, truthfully. “I don’t know what the fuck was in that thing or what he did to release it, but I can’t feel anything in him but a bit of background magic that will probably dissipate over the next few hours…”

“Hmm,” said Geralt.

It really was very interesting how Geralt hadn’t looked at her once since Jaskier had touched that vase. What exactly was so special about this human? Yennefer liked to believe that she knew Geralt better than most – she knew he preferred to work alone; that he didn’t like being crowded or having somebody look over his shoulder, but Yennefer had seen that blog and she’d watched that video of Geralt fighting the kikimore warrior in the drainage tunnels. Jaskier had followed him in there; had trusted that Geralt would keep him safe. Either the Witcher was getting soft in his old age or…

“What happened…?”

Jaskier’s cornflower blue eyes fluttered open softly, his voice raspy as he looked at Geralt and then Yennefer, dazed.

“You touched something you shouldn’t have,” Yen told him.

Geralt scowled at her briefly as he gently helped Jaskier to sit.

“How do you feel?” Geralt asked.

“Like I’ve been hit by a steamroller,” groaned Jaskier.

Yen saw a ghost of a smile flit across Geralt’s lips as Jaskier scraped a hand over his face and through his hair; the colour slowly returning to his cheeks.

“Good,” Yennefer replied, “maybe that’ll remind you to next time leave the magical artefact alone.”

Jaskier looked mournfully at her.

“Thanks for that,” he muttered, “big help.”

Yennefer couldn’t help but grin.

“You should take him home,” she said to Geralt. “He’ll be a little discombobulated for a while, but he should be okay after a hot cuppa…or a few shots of vodka.”

“I’m right here you know,” Jaskier grumbled.

Geralt stood and hauled Jaskier easily to his feet, dusting him off like a parent would to a toddler.

“Alright,” he replied, “I’ll uh…send somebody around to fingerprint or whatever it is they do.”

“And you’ll look into the Dwarf Mafia, right?”

Yennefer was sure, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the Dwarf Mafia was involved in the theft of the Eternal Sun. She could feel it in her bones.

Geralt sighed.

“Yes,” he agreed, “I’ll look into it.”

Yen gave a satisfied nod and watched as Geralt half carried, half dragged Jaskier out of the room. Her entire afternoon now was going to be taken up with that stupid vase, running test after test to see what the hell had happened to activate its magic…and what the Hell Jaskier might have released.

____

It wasn’t so much that Geralt was  _ concerned _ . Well…it was, but more in the way one would be concerned about the endearing but annoying Labrador puppy that had taken to following you around and had been recently clipped by a car. Jaskier was Geralt’s responsibility, much to his chagrin, and he’d let harm come to him. Needless to say, Geralt was feeling…guilty.

It had been a while since he’d seen Yennefer- at least a year – but it was like they’d picked up again where they’d left off. Geralt had been…distracted. Yen drove him crazy – she was stubborn and strong-willed and infuriating, but also magnetic and passionate. Geralt fell into her orbit every time they crossed paths; pulled in by her gravity and all sense just left him.

If he’d been paying more attention to Jaskier, then maybe this would never have happened. Geralt had seen Jaskier’s body slumped unconscious on the ground and it was like he was back on that case five years ago; too enthralled by the beautiful sorceress to concentrate on what he was supposed to be doing…

Geralt stole a look at Jaskier in the passenger seat next to him. He certainly looked alright now; no longer deathly pale or shaking, but sitting straight and bright-eyed like nothing had ever happened.

“So you’re saying I just imagined the pitch-black and the searing heat of the fire tornado?” Jaskier said, eyeing Geralt suspiciously.

“No,” Geralt replied, “I’m saying that’s not what I saw. Whatever magic that was, it only affected  _ you _ like that – all Yenna and I could see was you hovering just off the ground and nothing we cast could break through the barrier it had around you.”

Jaskier folded his arms across his chest, sulkily.

“ _ Yenna _ ,” he repeated, sarcastically. Jaskier was quiet for a moment and then said, “So what’s all this about the Dwarf Mafia?”

Glad to have the chance to change the subject, Geralt took a deep breath.

“They’re not exactly a  _ mafia _ ,” explained Geralt, “It’s just a name that sort of stuck.”

“So if they’re not mafia, what are they exactly?”

Geralt glanced at Jaskier and frowned.

“When were you born?”

“Uh…nineteen-ninety-three,” Jaskier replied, uncertainly.

“Fuck,” muttered Geralt, “you’re a baby. Alright…do you know anything about the miner’s strikes of the 80s?”

Jaskier shot him a withering look.

“I have a First in Politics from Cambridge,” said Jaskier, “of course I have.”

That was something at least. People these days forgot history too easily, or didn’t care to learn it in the first place and Geralt just didn’t have the patience or the enthusiasm to educate them on things they ought to know.

“Okay, so a lot of the coal mines back then were maintained by dwarves,” continued Geralt. “Just like a lot of human miners, their whole culture was based around mining and when Thatcher closed them all down…it was like the whole culture was lost. Unlike the humans, the dwarves had their whole villages underground, so when the pits closed, they lost their homes; were forced above ground and they struggled. The race bias made it even harder for them to get work than the humans who had done the same job and many packed up and left – moved to countries that still had mines, whether it was coal, or jewels, or gold…”

Jaskier frowned.

“So the Eternal Sun is…a dwarven mining lamp?”

“It’s a symbol more than anything,” Geralt explained. “It was taken when the last dwarf-run pit closed and shoved in a drawer in a museum. It’s more than a magical lamp to them – it’s the light in the darkness; it’s hope, and the belief that no matter how dark it gets, there is always a light for them that will burn bright and never go out.”

“So the Dwarf Mafia stole it back?”

“Allegedly,” Geralt sighed. “They’re a group of Dwarf reclamationists – determined to claw back their culture from the government that stole it. They’ve written to the British Museum several times requesting to have the Eternal Sun back for their people but…”

“They’ve been refused every time,” finished Jaskier.

Geralt nodded. He’d had one or two dealings with the Dwarf Mafia over the last thirty years and if they had been responsible for the theft, Geralt didn’t really think he could blame them for it. He knew a little something about a diminishing way of life and humankind’s hatred of anything and anyone who was at all different.

Except Jaskier.

Geralt didn’t remember a single time in his life that a human’s initial reaction to him wasn’t fear or horror or revulsion, but when Jaskier’s eyes had locked with his across that bar they had been warm and interested. Jaskier had looked at him and he hadn’t seen a monster – he’d seen a man.

He pulled the car to a stop in front of Jaskier’s Camden flat and tried to ignore the unease settling in his stomach as he remembered the bitter chill of the place; the darkness and the damp. Jaskere unfastened his seatbelt and flashed Geralt a tired but thankful smile.

“Well, thanks for dropping me off,” he said, the cheer in his voice slightly strained. “Promise you won’t go talking to the Dwarf Mafia without me – there’s a whole well of interesting stories there and I really want to be in the middle of it.”

Geralt nodded and waited.

He expected Jaskier to falter with his fingers on the door handle; expected him to turn and haltingly ask Geralt if he could  _ not _ go back into his miserable, freezing flat; to ask if he could maybe come and stay at Geralt’s place for the night because he’d been hit by some pretty nasty magic and he didn’t want to be alone.

Geralt waited and it never happened. Flashing him one more exhausted smile, Jaskier opened the car door and started to get out.

“Stop!”

Jaskier turned, blinking in surprise at the command and Geralt sighed. He couldn’t believe he was about to do this.

“Listen,” Geralt said quietly, “why don’t you get some clothes together and you can sleep on my couch for the night?”

Jaskier’s cornflower blue eyes widened.

“You what?”

“Or don’t,” grumbled Geralt; quickly looking away to concentrate on a cat padding up the other side of the road, “it’s not like I care either way, it’s just that…I’m not sure being…in the cold would help you…recover.”

There was a heartbeat and then Jaskier sat heavily back into the passenger seat. Geralt snuck a glance at him.

“Oh,” replied Jaskier, softly. “I…had hoped you didn’t notice…”

Geralt turned his head and fixed Jaskier with a sceptical look.

“You hoped I wouldn’t notice it’s Arctic in there? Or the damp, or the mould, or the lack of hot water? What’s the deal with that?”

Jaskier frowned as he looked at Geralt.

“I told you,” Jaskier responded, “when we first met, I told you I was broke – that I was pinning absolutely everything on this blog working out.”

“Yes, but…”

“You didn’t think it was as bad as it is,” Jaskier finished, dully. “Well, it is. I’m essentially working for free at this point and until the blog gets enough hits, they won’t pay me a penny. I’m on the bones of my arse, Geralt – my electric meter ran out and my choice was between food or electricity, so I bought food and even that’s pretty much gone now. If I don’t get paid soon then…”

Jaskier trailed off with a shrug, staring down at his knees.

Geralt sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He couldn’t have known how dire Jaskier’s situation was. With his designer clothes and effervescence, Jaskier put up a great front of being an educated rich boy without a care in the world. When he’d said he was pinning his hopes on the blog, Geralt thought Jaskier was being melodramatic; that he still had something to fall back on.

In a way, that explained why Jaskier had scoffed down 20 chicken nuggets and refused to let Geralt near them. It was probably the most food he’d had that week.

“Right, that’s it,” Geralt sighed, already regretting what he was about to say as Jaskier turned bright, hopeful eyes on him, “you’re staying with me until somebody pays you.”

Jaskier’s sullenness melted into a look of pure joy; slumped shoulders straightening; blue eyes shining.

“You mean it?”

Geralt was surprised to find that he did. Jaskier wasn’t exactly a bad kid and Geralt couldn’t very well just  _ leave _ him there…

He sighed again. This was how he’d found himself in this situation in the first place – seeing Jaskier in a pathetic and distressing state and being unable to just leave him in it.

“Don’t make me regret it,” Geralt muttered.

The smile that lit up Jaskier’s face was possibly one of the brightest Geralt had ever seen, and somehow that knot of unease loosened as Jaskier threw the car door open wide and bounded from the passenger seat, fishing house keys from his pocket.

“I won’t!” he exclaimed, happily. “I promise, I’ll be the best house guest ever!”


	6. Going Underground

Geralt sighed softly in his sleep, enjoying the feel of the warm body in his arms. It had been a long time since he’d had a dream like this and he could already feel it slipping from him as he pulled the body closer to his chest in a vain attempt to keep himself in the dream for just a moment longer. The feel of warm skin against his lips was divine; hair as soft as silk brushing against his nose as he buried his face into it and breathed in the sweet scent of red apple shampoo. Gods, but he didn’t want to wake. Geralt just wanted to stay wrapped up in this soft, warm dream for eternity.

The body in his arms let out a small, sleepy groan that Geralt felt vibrate against his chest; pushing back against Geralt’s groin. In a second, Geralt’s eyes snapped open and he found himself staring at a very real ear of a young man; the silky hair that brushed against his face, a soft sandy brown that Geralt was very familiar with. Geralt froze.

He remembered Jaskier climbing into bed with him somewhere around three in the morning; his teeth chattering as he wrapped his long, slim body around Geralt’s back.

“ _The fuck?_ ” Geralt had groused; half asleep as he felt the cold rush in between the covers and the bed dip behind him.

“ _Cold_ …” Jaskier had murmured, sliding in beside him and seeking out Geralt’s warmth.

Geralt had to admit the night had been the coldest of the last three days. Jaskier had been sleeping on his couch since the incident at the British Museum and had, up until that point, been the perfect house guest he’d promised to be. Geralt couldn’t begrudge him the warmth, and had allowed himself to be aggressively spooned until Jaskier’s shivers had subsided and his breathing had evened out again.

Sometime in the night, they had turned over and now it was Geralt holding Jaskier’s body indecently close to his own; an embarrassingly evident erection pressed against Jaskier’s firm buttocks and Jaskier sleepily grinding against it.

Geralt bit down hard on his lip, and wondered if it was possible to gnaw his arm off and slip out of the bed without waking Jaskier in the process. Not that he was especially ashamed of waking up hard – morning wood was a perfectly natural thing that happened – but this was _Jaskier_ he was holding in his arms; whose scent he’d been breathing in and whose ear he’d been nuzzling and Geralt was in absolutely no mood to deal with the insufferable smart-arsed commentary on the situation.

Slowly, he attempted to inch away but his arm was trapped under the pillow Jaskier was lying on. It was going to take a small miracle to get out of this situation and he winced as Jaskier sighed softly and shifted.

“Why, Geralt,” he murmured, “is that a baguette in your underwear, or did you fancy a bit of me for breakfast?”

“Fuck,” cursed Geralt.

There was no point trying to inch away now – Jaskier was awake and very aware of Geralt’s raging erection pressed right between his arse cheeks. Geralt was out of the bed like a shot.

“Oh, don’t be embarrassed,” Jaskier quietly reassured him as he rolled over, stretching luxuriously, “I can’t exactly blame you – I am, after all, a Snack.”

The covers had slipped down and Jaskier’s t-shirt had inched up during his stretch, exposing the line of soft, dark hair that extended down past the waistband of his underwear. His blue eyes were still sleep-hazed and his hair sticking up in tufts; an almost smug smile playing across his lips.

“You are remarkably self-assured, aren’t you?” grumbled Geralt.

“Yes,” replied Jaskier, simply.

Geralt hastily grabbed a pair of jeans from the floor and tried to stuff his legs into them whilst avoiding Jaskier’s eye. He could feel Jaskier watching him; feel the amusement radiating from Jaskier’s smirk and he hated it.

“Hmm,” Geralt replied; finally managing to get into his jeans so that he could make a hasty exit from the room.

Jaskier certainly had an overabundance of self confidence. In some ways, Geralt found it quite admirable, but he wished Jaskier could be just a little less…insufferable with it.

It had obviously been too long since Geralt had been with anybody. He readily admitted it had been a while and it wasn’t as though Jaskier was unattractive…or unwilling – the way he’d ground back against Geralt’s cock; the soft, appreciative moan he’d let out; that self-satisfied smirk on his lips as he’d stretched very deliberately – yes, Geralt was sure that Jaskier would have helped him alleviate his morning affliction, and therein lay the problem.

Geralt didn’t do this. He didn’t do companionship. He had gone through the last century being mostly alone and it was better that way. Human lives were short – they grew old and died so fast – and Geralt had already outlived most of the humans he’d met in his lifetime. Yennefer was about the only constant he’d had, and even then she came and went like the seasons. Geralt accepted it because that was how life was for creatures like them.

If he never had to see Jaskier again then sleeping with him wouldn’t have been an issue, but that wasn’t the case. They were stuck with each other for as long as this stupid blog of Jaskier’s kept going and worse, Geralt had agreed to it of his own volition.

Sighing heavily, Geralt tied his hair back from his face and reached for the coffee. The sooner Jaskier got paid, the sooner he could have his own space back.

His phone buzzed against the kitchen counter and Geralt frowned as he looked at the name that flashed up above the text message: Yennefer.

 _I’m here_ , it said.

Geralt’s frown deepened just as the doorbell rang, obnoxiously.

“I’ll get it!” Jaskier called cheerfully as he bounded out of the bedroom and past Geralt to clatter down the stairs.

He was still in his underwear. Geralt’s eyes rolled towards the ceiling as he realised what was going to happen next as Jaskier pulled the door open to find Yen. She was absolutely going to get the wrong idea.

“Fuck.”

____

Yennefer watched the dark shadow behind the frosted glass get closer and she frowned. Something about the build was…not quite Geralt – sure enough it was about the right height, but the shoulders weren’t broad enough; the gait, too light. Her suspicions were confirmed when the door opened to reveal the human Geralt had brought with him to the museum the other day – Jaskier. He looked like he’d just woken up; still in his underwear with his hair sticking up on end. Yen’s eyebrows shot up.

“Jaskier,” she greeted him simply.

“Yennefer,” replied Jaskier with a frown.

Yen could feel a smile tug at the corner of her mouth as she looked Jaskier over again. This entire situation just got more and more curious.

“Is Geralt at home?”

She could see Jaskier thinking; could see that smart remark he desperately wanted to make form behind his blue eyes.

“Yeah,” Jaskier said after a moment, stepping aside to let her pass.

Yennefer smiled to herself as Jaskier flattened against the wall to let her pass. She might have apologised somewhat for her behaviour when they’d first met, but Jaskier was obviously still wary of her. Yen couldn’t say she blamed him really – she’d given him a damn good scare on purpose, but only because he’d been loitering suspiciously around her archive room.

She left Jaskier to close the door as she made her way up the stairs in search of Geralt, who she found in the kitchen pouring hot water into three mismatched coffee mugs.

Yennefer hadn’t been inside Geralt’s flat for a long time – not since the she’d been summarily sacked by Calanthe from the case she’d helped Geralt with. It had been a few years ago and Yennefer had stormed out after a blazing row with Geralt where they had both said things they regretted. The flat hadn’t changed a bit, and Geralt was still wearing the same old black jeans and t-shirt.

He glanced up at her as he reached for the milk bottle; his gold eyes, wary as Yennefer sidled up to the counter.

“That didn’t take you long, did it?” Yennefer said, inclining her head in the direction of Jaskier who slinked like a cat behind her and back into the bedroom.

Geralt sighed.

“It’s not like that,” replied Geralt, wearily. “He’s impoverished – freezing and starving in a shitty little Camden flat and I couldn’t leave him there after the incident the other day. I took pity on him.”

Yennefer smirked. Even after all these years, Geralt Rivia could still surprise her. He claimed not to care; to not get involved with the petty dealings of humans and yet here he was bringing Jaskier home with him out of concern for his wellbeing. Yennefer had never known Geralt to care this much about any one human before and the way he avoided her gaze as he spoke about it was fascinating.

“You’re definitely taking in strays,” she murmured.

“Hmm,” replied Geralt.

Yennefer leaned casually against the counter, watching as Geralt stirred milk and sugar into two of the coffee cups before passing one to her. She smiled, enjoying the warmth seeping into her chilled fingers.

“Why are you here, Yenna?” Geralt asked, quietly.

A noise from the bedroom made Yennefer glance over her shoulder and she saw Jaskier crash off the door, hopping on one foot as he attempted to pull on a sock. At least he was mostly dressed now.

“It’s been three days,” Yennefer replied, turning her attention back to Geralt, “You said you’d call me when you had something.”

Geralt grimaced as he swallowed a sip of too-hot coffee.

“I don’t have anything,” he muttered.

“That’s a pile of shit,” Yen said, firmly. “I don’t believe for one bloody second that you’ve spent three whole days, sitting on your arse doing nothing. You’ve been making phone calls; you’ve been tracking people down – I know you have, so don’t try to fob me off like that.”

Geralt’s gold eyes slid towards Jaskier who had appeared in the kitchen and swiped the remaining coffee cup. Yennefer saw the look that passed between them; saw Jaskier open his mouth to speak and the clench of Geralt’s jaw as he gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. Yennefer turned to the journalist.

“Jaskier?” she prompted.

He looked like a rabbit caught in the headlights, his blue eyes shifting nervously from Yennefer to Geralt and back again. Out of the two of them, Yennefer was confident which one Jaskier was more afraid of.

“There’s a meeting…” Jaskier blurted; cracking under Yen’s steely gaze.

Geralt hissed.

“Jaskier!”

“I’m sorry!” Jaskier all but shouted in frustration, “but she is very scary and she can probably kill me with her pinky finger.”

Yennefer turned triumphantly back to Geralt. She knew it – there was no way Geralt had yielded zero results in three days.

“With the dwarves?” she asked.

Geralt looked at her and sighed, wearily.

“Yes,” he replied in a tight voice, “and I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d want to be involved, and they won’t meet us if you’re there. It took all my negotiation skills to get them to accept Jaskier!”

Yen stilled as Jaskier smiled innocently at her and shrugged. She could feel her anger start to simmer in her veins; bubbling hot as it raced through her veins. Yennefer glared at Geralt.

“So they’ll let _him_ in the room, but not me?”

“Hey!” Jaskier exclaimed, indignantly.

Geralt pinched his nose as though attempting to stave off a headache.

“You’re the curator who kept their artefact locked up, Yen,” he said, gently, “As far as they’re concerned, you’re the bad guy.”

Yennefer pushed her coffee cup violently back onto the counter and glared at him.

“You’re going to let them keep it aren’t you?” she growled.

“We don’t even know if they have it yet,” Geralt countered.

“Of course they have it,” Yennefer scoffed, “why the bloody hell would they agree to a meeting with you of they didn’t have it?”

Geralt glowered at her, but Yennefer wasn’t about to back down. She wasn’t about to let those thieving shits get away with this. She wasn’t going to let _Geralt_ let them get away with it.

“Forgive me,” said Jaskier, softly, “but…might I ask why this artefact is so important to you, Yennefer?”

For a second, Yennefer didn’t register she was being spoken to. It was Geralt who looked away first, his gold eyes sliding away to fix on Jaskier standing behind Yennefer with his coffee mug hugged to his chest.

“Its museum property,” Yennefer sniffed, “it’s part of the collection that I’m in charge of – it’s my responsibility…”

“Yes,” interrupted Jaskier, “I understand that, but what I’m asking is why the Eternal Sun in important to _you_ specifically. What makes you so reluctant to let it go? Why are you fighting so hard for this particular piece when you have hundreds of other magical artefacts to curate?”

“It’s a matter of principle,” Yen replied, simply. “They were denied custody of the Eternal Sun for good reason. Who do you think could take better care of such a precious magical object – a bunch of former miners, or a world-renowned museum?”

“So…your interest is purely professional?” Jaskier pressed. “You have no personal connection to the Eternal Sun at all? Your main objection to letting the Dwarves take care of their own culturally important artefact is that you think you can take better care of it by locking it in a drawer?”

Yennefer glanced at Geralt who looked at her with raised eyebrows. She wanted to be angry with Jaskier for arguing with her…but the way he’d worded it made her concerns sound petty. They _were_ petty, and deep down Yennefer knew it. That didn’t mean she had to like being called out on it.

“I can take better care of it,” she muttered.

Jaskier blinked at her over the rim of his mug as he took a sip of hot coffee.

“Do you really think these Dwarves – if they took the Eternal Sun at all, which is really just conjecture at the moment – would let something so important to their cultural heritage fall into disrepair? Do you think they’d let it get damaged? Do you honestly belive that they wouldn’t have it guarded day and night; have it displayed where all their people could visit it; that they wouldn’t teach their children and all future generations about it’s significance? Do you really think that locking it away in cold storage is the best thing for everyone?”

As much as Yennefer hated to admit it, Jaskier made a valid point. She’d always found the Dwarf leaders to be brash and uncouth; their demands too forceful and their viterol for her, amusing. It had become almost a game for Yennefer over the years to deny their petitions…but Jaskier was right – she had no investment in this object at all and if it never came back to the museum, Yennefer didn’t even think she would lose a second of sleep over it.

Geralt reached out and lay a large, heavy hand over hers; his fingers giving a gentle, encouraging squeeze.

“It’s part of their culture, Yen,” Geralt murmured, “I promise you that _if_ the Dwarves took the Eternal Sun, their aim is to protect it. Let me talk to them, let me find out if they have it and if their intentions are pure…and trust me to make the right decision when it comes to it.”

Yennefer stared at him. She did trust Geralt – more than she trusted most people anyway – but she still didn’t want to let it go. The thought of the Dwarves getting their own way after resorting to theft made her blood boil…but at the same time, she probably would never have let them have it no matter how many times they submitted their requests in writing.

If she had wanted anything quite as badly, Yennefer was sure she probably would have stolen it too.

“Fine,” she sighed, “I trust you. Just don’t make me regret it.”

“I won’t,” Geralt replied, quietly.

Yennefer scowled as she picked up her coffee cup again, trying not to notice the softness in Geralt’s eyes as he glanced at Jaskier; a silent thanks for helping to talk her around, Yennefer thought. It was strange – here she’d been calling Geralt a soft touch for letting himself be talked into this whole blog business, but Yennefer had just been persuaded too. With a few short sentences, Jaskier had changed her opinion and that was a difficult thing to do.

That was interesting.

____

London was littered with corpses.

Some of them were visible in plain sight, dejectedly propped up on busy street corners and only bits of others remained, buried deep below the ground. The ghost of time drifted through the cold and draughty tunnels of London’s long forgotten stations; abandoned and decaying; rotting and rusting; dead.

Jaskier never thought he would get the chance to explore this subterranean world; of the disused tube lines and abandoned stations that time forgot, and yet here he was – following Geralt once again through the gloom and into the unknown with excitement warming his belly even as the chill penetrated the snug sheepskin lining of his jacket.

He could feel the breeze from the trains that passed through nearby Holborn station; hear the crackle of electricity in the overhead cables and the screech of brakes on metal rails. It was difficult to know where one was going in the eerie darkness of the labyrinthine tunnels, and he stuck close to Geralt; trusting the Witcher’s superior eyesight and hearing to lead the way.

It had taken a lot of hard work on Geralt’s part to get this meeting set up with the dwarves. Jaskier had honestly believed at one point that they wouldn’t get it, but to his great surprise they had been granted access. Jaskier didn’t know why it surprised him to find out the Dwarf Mafia had a base in the disused underground tunnels.

Geralt stopped suddenly and Jaskier almost ran into the back of him in the dimness.

“What is it?” Jaskier hissed.

Geralt sniffed the damp air, cautiously.

“We’re not alone,” he murmured.

“TOO FUCKIN’ RIGHT YOU’RE NOT!” a loud voice came from the shadows, echoing off the curved metal-lined walls.

Jaskier almost jumped out of his skin, letting out a sharp squeak of fright as he leapt closer to Geralt. The Witcher gave him a look of disbelief over his shoulder – a look that said ‘are you fucking serious right now, Jaskier?’ by the narrowing of his gold eyes and the clench in his jaw – and Jaskier gave him a sheepish smile of apology.

A dwarf came into view, appearing from a cut in the tunnel wall; bearded and bald-headed; wearing an orange high-visibility work jacket.

“You move quiet enough,” the dwarf addressed Geralt, “but that one could wake the dead.”

He pointed to Jaskier and Geralt sighed.

“I know,” he muttered, “I almost got eaten by a kikimore warrior because of his splashing about.”

Jaskier pouted indignantly. It wasn’t his fault that his eyes weren’t as good in the dark as a Witcher’s or a dwarf’s, and he still wasn’t used to all this traipsing around in tunnels lark. Jaskier watched as Geralt stepped forward and warmly shook the dwarf’s hand, smiling like they were old friends.

“Jaskier, this is Derrion,” Geralt introduced the dwarf, “he’s our contact. Derrion, this is Jaskier – my journalist.”

The dwarf looked Jaskier up and down with suspicious hazel eyes.

“Looks like a bit of a toff to me,” Derrion muttered.

“Hey!” protested Jaskier.

Geralt clapped a heavy hand on Jaskier’s shoulder that almost knocked him over and most definitely silenced him.

“True, he doesn’t look trustworthy at first glance,” Geralt said; ignoring Jaskier’s offended expression, “but I promise you he knows a little about poverty and struggle. He’s sympathetic to your cause.”

Jaskier bit the inside of his cheek as Derrion gave him one more doubtful look before nodding.

“Okay,” the dwarf muttered, follow me.”

 _This is it_ , thought Jaskier as he was propelled forward by Geralt’s warm, heavy hand on his shoulder.

Ever since Yennefer had first mentioned the Eternal Sun, Jaskier’s natural curiosity had taken over. He’d spent the last three days reading up on the miners’ strikes of the 1980s and of how the pit closures had affected dwarf communities across the country. The human spin on the story was that the dwarves had integrated better within modern society with the closure of pits and their tight-knit underground villages; but Jaskier had got hold of dwarf-written publications that told a different story.

Dwarf children were growing up knowing nothing of their rich history; their texts and artefacts seized and kept from them; their language disintegrating. Their whole culture was about to disappear within a generation and the Dwarf Mafia were a small group fighting to keep it alive; trying to reclaim their culture and pass it onto future generations. It was all well and good to integrate with the rest of the world, but it was also important to remember where you came from.

Jaskier was almost vibrating with enthusiasm as Derrion led them both through a maze of tunnels; through twists and turns until finally they emerged into a brightly-lit room filled with dwarves chattering in low voices. All chatter stopped immediately the second they noticed Geralt and Jaskier; the air turning suddenly tense and hostile. Jaskier felt himself draw closer to Geralt’s side; seeking the safety of his bulk.

“This is the Witcher, Geralt Rivia,” Derrion announced, “and…Jaskier.”

The introduction hung in the air for a moment; most eyes turning towards a dwarf with a red-tinged beard and hazel eyes standing over a large map of the underground ventilation system; waiting for his approval. The dwarf nodded.

“Derrion speaks highly of you, Witcher,” he said in a harsh Glaswegian accent.

“Hmm,” replied Geralt, “you must be Yarpin.”

“That I am,” the dwarf replied. “I hear you’re investigating a robbery.”

Jaskier chanced a look at Geralt. Up until this point, it had mostly been speculation as to who was responsible for the theft of the Eternal Sun. Yennefer had hurled her suspicions loudly enough, but the truth was that there was absolutely no physical evidence linking the dwarves to the theft. This was their chance to find out if Yennefer had been right all along.

“Cut the bollocks,” Geralt said, wearily. “We all know why I’m here. Three days ago, a dwarven artefact known as the Eternal Sun was taken from an archive room at the British Museum. I understand that the item has great historical and cultural significance to the dwarven race and it would be an absolute travesty to all if that artefact were to be irreparably damaged or lost forever.”

Geralt leaned forward, placing both hands flat on the table as he looked at Yarpin, seriously. The dwarf started to laugh.

“Get to the point!”

“Alright,” replied Geralt, “I need to know if your lot are responsible. Because if you are then as far as I’m concerned, we’re done here – if you have it then I know this thing is in safe hands. The Eternal Sun is too important to your heritage for you to do anything than treat it with the utmost care and respect. I’ll do whatever I can to smooth things over with the curator at the British Museum…”

Yarpin laughed again.

“Yennefer Vengerberg?” he said, bitterly. “That witch can’t be reasoned with!”

“I can reason with her,” Geralt replied, softly. “Jaskier convinced her just this morning that the Sun would be in the best hands if you had it.”

Jaskier started at the mention of his name, squirming slightly as every dwarf in the room turned to look at him.

“Aye, well,” Yarpin said, quietly, “I guess it helps to have a pretty face then. So what happens if I said we didn’t have it?”

Geralt sighed.

“Then I have to go hunt it down,” he replied, “Many police hours will be lost chasing down dead ends and rumours. I’ll likely have to give it up for lost and we’ll all have to come to terms with the fact that a huge piece of your culture is gone and you’ll never get it back.”

Yarpin looked at Geralt with an unreadable expression; his short, stubby fingers thoughtfully stroking his beard. Jaskier’s stomach was in knots, wondering if Yarpin would confirm the Reclamationists’ involvement in taking the Eternal Sun, or if he would deny it. Yennefer was…surprisingly not altogether unreasonable. As ambitious as she was, Jaskier was sure she’d be satisfied knowing the Sun would be well taken care of whoever’s hands it ended up in.

“Fine,” Yarpin said, after what felt like an eternity. “We have it – it’s rightfully ours anyway. You can’t steal your own property back, and it was taken from us without our permission. I begged that witch for years to give it back to us, but she wouldn’t let it out of her sight! She said she didn’t trust us with our own heritage!”

“She was wrong,” Jaskier interjected, as soothingly as he could manage. “She misjudged you. I have…absolutely no experience of losing everything the way you dwarves have – your culture, your livelihoods all slipping away from you – but I know that you’d treat the one shining beacon you do have like it’s the most precious thing in the world. Humans were wrong to take it from you – the very least we can do is make sure no repercussions befall you for reclaiming what’s yours.”

Jaskier glanced at Geralt. The Witcher was looking at him strangely – not the look of frustrated disbelief he’d shot Jaskier earlier, but something altogether softer; almost questioning.

Yarpin burst out laughing, causing Geralt to look away and Jaskier’s head to swim.

“Oh, this one has a way with words,” Yarpin chuckled to Geralt.

“I suppose so,” Geralt replied softly. “So you have it?”

“Aye, we do,” confirmed Yarpin.

Jaskier sighed in relief as Geralt slowly nodded.

“Alright,” said Geralt, decisively, “Now, lets try to figure out a way this won’t come back and bite us all in the arse.”

With little ceremony, the dwarves in attendance all pulled up a chair to listen and discuss their next move. Jaskier retreated to the corner to listen and to watch; his eyes hardly leaving Geralt and the way his brow furrowed in concentration; the way he tilted his head to the side as Yarpin talked; the way he brushed errant strands of long white hair behind his ear whenever he looked down at the table and they fell into his face.

Most of all, Jaskier coming back to that moment earlier and the look Geralt had given him. He didn’t know what to make of it – there had been a few moments over the last few days where Geralt had been…warm; where it had seemed for just a minute that Jaskier wasn’t just some bloke who’d latched on and refused to let go, and that Geralt actually liked him.

The moments were always short-lived, and yet Jaskier was still here; still being allowed to follow the Witcher around on his cases; being permitted to sleep in his bed…

Jaskier needed to not think too hard about that one. He’d made a joke of it; had laughed it off and enjoyed Geralt’s fluster but the truth was that Jaskier had woken up with Geralt’s arms around him and his lips pressed to that small patch of skin just behind Jaskier’s ear; Geralt’s warmth seeping through his t-shirt…and it had been one of the most erotic moments of his life. 

____

It had been a pretty successful day as far as Geralt was concerned. The meeting with Yarpin had gone…better than expected, and they had come up with a decent plan that Geralt just had to get Yennefer to agree to in order to keep the dwarves from being prosecuted. Thanks to Jaskier’s efforts, Geralt had every reason to believe he might actually be successful in talking Yennefer around.

He stole a glance at Jaskier as they emerged from the disused tunnel and into Holborn station; ignoring the looks from commuters as they hopped the barrier. The way Jaskier was sometimes – the way he dressed, the way he bounced with unbridled energy – made Geralt forget that he was dealing with somebody incredibly smart.

Jaskier baffled him a little. With his qualifications, Geralt would have thought Jaskier could walk into any job he liked, and yet here he was living off of Geralt’s couch because he couldn’t afford food or heating. Geralt couldn’t imagine what must have gone terribly wrong in Jaskier’s life for him to end up in abject poverty, following around a Witcher in some vain attempt to make a living.

Geralt frowned as Jaskier’s phone beeped cheerfully – a sign they were back with civilisation and in range of the Tube’s dedicated wifi network. He dug his own phone from his back pocket, but apart from a spam email, he was message free. Jaskier on the other hand seemed to be getting notification after notification, and Geralt’s frown deepened as Jaksier stopped dead in his tracks on the way to the car, his blue eyes widening.

“Holy fuck!” exclaimed Jaskier, causing a nearby group of nuns to stare at him in horror and perform the sign of the cross in unison.

“What’s wrong?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier looked at him, a smile playing about his lips.

“It’s happened,” he replied, breathlessly. “I didn’t fucking think it would happen – not really, I mean it was a shot in the dark, this whole thing – but it did, it’s happened…”

Geralt shook his head, confused.

“Jaskier,” Geralt interrupted, shortly, “what the fuck are you talking about?”

“The blog!” explained Jaskier; his cornflower-blue eyes shining with excitement, “It’s…it’s gone viral!”

It took almost the entire car journey back to Scotland Yard for Jaskier to explain everything properly. Geralt might have entered the twenty-first century, but he’d done it kicking and screaming with the bare minimum of technological requirements – he owned a phone, he could use email, and he was aware of Candy Crush – but he was woefully oblivious to the ins and outs of internet culture.

“Thousands of hits, Geralt! Thousands in just a few hours, and you’re trending on Twitter, and the video of the Kikimora and the Hirikka have gone viral…”

“I’m not going to even pretend to know what any of that means,” muttered Geralt as he turned at the traffic lights into Westminster.

Jaskier let out an exasperated sigh.

“It means they’re famous, Geralt! YOU are famous – people know who you are, and they know who I am, and I’m finally making money…”

“Excellent,” Geralt replied, cheerfully, “that means you can fuck off out of my flat and back to your own!”

Jaskier pouted.

“Harsh,” he replied, “I know for a fact you’ve enjoyed having me around – you said yourself the salmon en croute that I cooked from scratch the other night was ‘fine’, which I know is Geralt for ‘it was really nice Jaskier, thank you’.”

“Hmm.”

Alright, so Geralt had to admit that Jaskier was an excellent cook and he’d definitely made himself useful over the last three days. Geralt couldn’t remember eating so well in a long time, and although his stomach may not have been adverse to keeping Jaskier around for a little while longer, Geralt’s brain was telling him that _not_ kicking Jaskier back to his own place would be a huge mistake.

Despite himself, Geralt was starting to feel…well…he didn’t know, exactly. He certainly didn’t hate having Jaskier around. The journalist’s energy and his chatter certainly made Geralt’s days a little more interesting than they had been previously, but…Geralt didn’t want to get too used to the company. He’d been on his own for so long now that he didn’t know how to exist in such constant proximity to another.

Yennefer was waiting for them in Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese; dressed down in skinny jeans and Chelsea boots with her black hair piled in a perfectly messy bun on the top of her head. She raised an eyebrow at them as Jaskier beamed and Geralt slid wearily onto the bench seat beside her.

“What are you so happy about?” Yennefer asked Jaskier.

“He got paid,” muttered Geralt.

Jaskier’s smile widened.

“Yes, I did,” he enthused, “and I’m buying in the drinks! What can I get for you, beautiful lady?”

Yennefer smothered a snort with her hand.

“Uh…Tanqueray,” she replied, “the orange one, with tonic.”

“Orange Tanqueray with tonic coming up,” confirmed Jaskier. “Geralt? Ale?”

“Hmm,” Geralt agreed.

He tried not to smile as Jaskier bounded off to the bar and Yennefer burst out laughing as she turned on the bench to face him.

“I see the blog is suddenly doing well,” Yen chuckled.

“How do you even know about that?” asked Geralt; surprised.

“Triss,” murmured Yennefer.

“Ah…”

Gently, Yennefer reached over the space between them and linked Geralt’s fingers through her own. He stared down at their joined hands for a moment.

“I suppose I’ll be reading all about the dwarves next,” Yennefer continued, quietly, “some well-spun, thought-provoking tale about Geralt Rivia, the champion of minority races fighting to regain their lost heritage…”

Geralt sighed.

“It wouldn’t be too far from the truth,” he replied, “Dwarves fighting to reclaim their heritage, I mean.”

“So they do have the Sun,” countered Yen, quickly, “and you let them keep it.”

Damn her, but Geralt kept forgetting how smart Yennefer was; how she could lull one into a false sense of security with her beauty and her softness, only for you to drop your guard and get bitten for it. She’d done it to him so many times and yet he never learned.

“Yes, they have it,” he said, resigned, “and I need you to say the British Museum gave it to them freely after many discussions, and you decided that it would be best kept with its own people.”

Yennefer twisted her mouth, obviously not enamoured with the idea. After a moment, she nodded.

“Fine,” conceded Yennefer. “It was only a stupid old lamp anyway.”

Geralt felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. Yennefer was ambitious and stubborn and she could be self-centred, but at her core she was kind. He was probably one of the only living people to ever know that about her.

“I missed you,” Yen continued, quietly.

Geralt glanced up from their linked fingers and found himself staring into Yennefer’s stunning violet eyes. He’d lost count of how many times they’d done this – how many times they’d broke apart only to fall back together like rolling waves against the shore.

“I’m only in Notting Hill,” Geralt replied, simply, “it’s not like we’ve been separated by a continent – you could have called to see me any time you wanted…”

“So could you,” she retorted.

Geralt nodded in agreement.

It had been well over two years since they’d seen each other last, and it had ended as it always had – with Geralt wanting more than Yennefer could give him. The problem was that he loved her, and in her own way she loved him too but, where Geralt would have been happy to settle down, Yennefer was a free spirit. She would up and leave in the middle of the night with no word to where she’d gone or when she was coming back. It had happened so many times over the last thirty years that it barely hurt him these days.

“Anyway,” Yennefer continued; a smile playing on her lips, “what’s going on with you and _him_?”

She inclined her head to where Jaskier was standing at the bar, flirting outrageously with a pretty redhead who twirled her hair around her finger in a coquettish manner as she laughed at something Jaskier said.

“Nothing,” replied Geralt.

“That’s bollocks,” Yennefer scoffed. “You forget that I know you Geralt, better than almost anybody. I saw the look on your face when you saw him drop to the floor, unconscious; the way your voice cracked when he didn’t wake. You give a fuck, Geralt. For whatever reason, you give a fuck about this one.”

“It’s nothing,” Geralt repeated, firmly.

It had to be nothing. Geralt couldn’t let it be something, not when he had to be around Jaskier all the time.

Smiling, Yennefer leaned forward and kissed him gently; her lips, soft against his; her lilac and gooseberry scent, sweet.

“Keep telling yourself that,” she whispered.

____

Jaskier’s heart sank; his stomach turning to lead as he looked over and saw Yennefer lean in; saw Geralt’s eyes flutter closed as she kissed him ever so softly.

Of course Jaskier never stood a chance, not when he was competing against _that_ . He’d let that tiny bit of hope worm it’s way in and now it was coming back to bite him in the arse. Jaskier couldn’t believe he’d been so stupid to think that those soft looks had meant anything; that waking up with Geralt’s hard cock pressed against him had meant anything. He’d known Geralt for five minutes – why _would_ it mean anything?

Swallowing down the bitterness in his chest, Jaskier plastered on his most charming smile and turned back to the redhead standing next to him at the bar.

“So,” he said to her, trailing a soft finger up the inside of her wrist, “has anyone ever told you that you have the most stunning eyes?”


	7. Geralt vs Feelings

_It’s not all monsters and magic in the life of a Witcher, as I found out this week._

_We humans dominate this world – our stories are plastered all over the newspapers. featured on tv; humans are prominent in the arts and the sciences, and you even have to dig deep on the internet to unearth something written by other races. I think we forget that we share our world with others – monsters, yes…but also elves and dwarves, silvans and halflings amongst so many more._

_These other races may seem to blend so seamlessly in with us, almost invisibly so which is what makes this so heartbreaking. We forget that they all had, once, their own rich cultures and languages so separate from ours and yet, so enriching to our world. Humans still incorporate their words into our daily language; we eat their traditional food and we’ve borrowed from their art and their fashions._

_Their artefacts and items of cultural importance sit in human museums and rot behind closed doors of the archives._

_This week I sat in a room full of dwarves who have been fighting for almost three decades to reclaim an artefact that is incredibly special to their kind, and I watched as Geralt Rivia helped them to make a deal with the British Museum so that they can bring the Eternal Sun home. His efforts, his empathy, his diplomacy have all helped restore this artefact to its rightful owners, thirty years after the last dwarf mine closed._

_Jaskier – The Witcher Hour_

_____

Geralt groaned aloud as his alarm cut through the blissful black of sleep, jarring him awake. Reaching out, he hit the alarm clock with his fist to silence it and rolled over, burying his face in the pillow. Instantly, Geralt regretted it - Jaskier’s fresh, fruity red apple scent still lingered there, curling its way around Geralt’s sleep-addled senses as he breathed in deeply.

Gathering the pillow up in his arms, Geralt lay inhaling the mouth-watering scent and he sighed. Jaskier had only been in his home for three days and yet, it had felt like so much longer. The flat felt too silent without the sound of Jaskier’s singing coming from the kitchen as he clattered around making pancakes or bacon and eggs; too empty without his clothes strewn everywhere; too sedate without his unbridled energy. His bed was cold without Jaskier curled up into him.

It had only been the once, and yet Geralt had to admit that waking up to Jaskier’s slim, soft body in his arms had been sublime; his warmth seeping into Geralt’s bare skin; his breathing, rhythmic and soothing. He groaned again, aware of the erection suddenly straining against his underwear and pressing down into the mattress beneath him.

This was ridiculous. Thinking about Jaskier like this did neither of them any good – of the silky softness of Jaskier’s apple-scented hair; of the way he’d pressed back against Geralt’s cock and let out the softest, sweetest moan – except Geralt _was_ thinking about it. More than that, he was thinking about what other noises Jaskier might have made if Geralt had rolled him onto his back and buried his nose into the crook of Jaskier’s neck; if he had let his lips wander down from that spot behind Jaskier’s ear and kissed down the long line of his neck to his throat…

No, this was the worst thing Geralt could be thinking of right now. He knew he should get up; should get in the shower and turn the water as cold as he could get it and will away the mental image of Jaskier’s head falling back against the pillow, mouth dropping open in a wanton sigh as Geralt sucked gently at the base of Jaskier’s throat.

His hand found its way into his underwear and Geralt hissed sharply at the contact. He was painfully hard; his cock already leaking against the soft cotton boxer-briefs. Geralt figured he was pretty much halfway there already, so he might as well let this fantasy play out; get it out of his system so he could carry on with his day.

He tightened his grip on his cock, growling into the pillow at the pressure as his hand dragged slowly from base to tip. God, that felt good; heat coiling in his belly as he buried his nose back into the Jaskier-scented pillow and let his senses be overwhelmed by the fresh, sweet red apple. Geralt imagined Jaskier’s ankles wrapped around his calves; thighs parting to let Geralt settle between them. He imagined Jaskier’s hands; those slim, delicate musician’s fingers tangling into his hair as Geralt rocked down against Jaskier’s warm, pliant body.

Geralt imagined the soft sighs in his ear as Jaskier mouthed at a fleshy lobe, raising goosebumps on Geralt’s skin at the cool air hitting the wetness. He imagined the harsh, gorgeous cry as he slid his hand between them and into Jaskier’s underwear; the velvet skin as he wrapped his fingers around Jaskier’s hardness and stroked…tugged…twisted…

His breathing was ragged – harsh and panting as he fucked his own hand; muffling his growls of pleasure in Jaskier’s pillow. Geralt imagined how Jaksier might look as he was brought close to the edge – how those cornflower blue eyes might widen; the colour swallowed by lust-blown pupils; the arch of his back as he pushed himself into Geralt’s hand; the rose flush of his cheeks creeping down his throat to his chest.

“ _Fuck_ …”

The curse was gritted between his teeth as Geralt’s thighs began to shake; the coiled heat in the base of his belly now so tight as he teetered on the brink of orgasm. He inhaled that sweet apple scent one more time; imagining how Jaskier might look as Geralt pushed him over the precipice; gasping Geralt’s name as he came, pulsing hot in Geralt’s hand.

The coil of heat snapped inside of him and Geralt’s fingers tightened in the soft pillow as he shook through the most intense orgasm he’d experienced in years. Geralt may or may not have whispered Jaskier’s name in the heat of the moment but he couldn’t quite remember as his vision slowly cleared and he became acutely aware of the stickiness in his underwear, cooling against his skin.

“Fuck…” Geralt muttered as he pushed himself up from the mattress with shaking arms.

 _This_ had been the worst idea he’d ever had. Geralt had been aiming for a release of pent up sexual frustration but…he could still see Jaskier’s face, flushed and damp with perspiration; silky brown hair sticking up from having Geralt’s hands in it. It wouldn’t leave his mind, even as he slid out of bed and towards the bathroom to turn on the shower as cold as possible. 

By the time he’d washed, dressed, and headed down Portobello Road towards Ladbroke Grove tube station, Geralt was almost willing to accept Yennefer may have had a point – there _was_ something going on there with Jaskier and it terrified Geralt half to death.

He knew he’d found Jaskier aesthetically pleasing the first time he’d seen him – singing and playing his guitar in that Camden bar – but Geralt had been put off by the practised charm; the rehearsed seduction techniques; the inflated self-confidence. He’d initially found Jaskier to be grating and phony…but he’d fast learned that ‘Jaskier’ was a persona; a front he put on for the world. Maybe it was pride or maybe it was self-preservation, but Geralt had found Jaskier to be far more bearable and even likeable when he was just being himself – when he was using his sharp wit; his intelligence; when he was _learning_.

Geralt had to admit he’d been stuck in a rut before Jaskier barrelled into his life. It had been two decades of the same old routine, sporadically punctuated by Yennefer showing up for a while and then disappearing on the breeze. Jaskier seemed to attract trouble just by breathing and somehow that had just made the last couple of weeks more exciting. Jaskier had taken one look at Geralt, latched himself on, and suddenly Geralt was no longer just waiting for the day where he became utterly obsolete. He felt like he had a purpose once again.

And herein lay the danger. Geralt could feel himself growing attached…damn it, he could feel himself growing more _attracted_ to Jaskier by the day. He’d woken up missing Jaskier’s presence; woke up wishing he was around and Geralt was very afraid of needing somebody. It had always been simpler on his own. Feelings were…messy. Complicated.

“Excuse me?”

It took him a second to realise the question had been aimed at him. Blinking in surprise, Geralt looked up to see a girl of about fifteen standing in front of him on the train platform, a gaggle of other girls behind her whispering and throwing glances his way.

“Excuse me,” the girl repeated politely, “but…are you Geralt Rivia the Witcher?”

“Uh…” Geralt replied, uncertainly, “yes?”

The girl beamed and the whispering from the gaggle behind her devolved into coquettish giggling. Geralt glanced up and down the platform, praying hard for a train soon.

“Can we get a selfie?” asked the girl, fishing a phone from the pocket of her school blazer.

“A what?”

“A picture,” she clarified.

The group of girls were staring at him, expectantly. Geralt could feel mild panic bubbling away inside of him. He would rather have faced down a whole group of ghouls, singlehandedly and without his silver sword than have his picture taken with a group of giggling schoolgirls.

“Why?” asked Geralt, baffled.

He regretted saying it the second the word left his mouth as the girl’s face fell. Jaskier’s blog had gained sudden popularity; the kikimore and hirikka videos spread across the internet. Where once Geralt had gone largely unrecognised, he was now being swept up in the burgeoning fame of the blog. As its main feature, Geralt should really have expected this.

“Uh,” he continued, “I mean…yeah…why not?”

Immediately, Geralt was swamped by schoolgirls squeezing in between the morning commuters. A girl latched onto each arm; a few of them dived to their knees in front of him, pouting bizarrely as another girl took several snaps with her phone camera. Geralt could feel the stares of the people on the station and he silently cursed Jaskier’s blog as he swallowed the surge of anxiety.

Blessedly, a breeze picked up and the crackle of the overhead cables announced the arrival of a train. The schoolgirls all squealed as they hurried to pick up their dropped bags, and Geralt hastily retreated down the platform, hoping to get on the carriage furthest away from them.

He hoped he’d never have to be in another schoolgirl sandwich ever again.

____

“Jaskier writes so beautifully,” Ciri sighed, dreamily as she lounged in Geralt’s desk chair, arms flopped lifelessly at her sides.

Triss smirked as Geralt emerged from the kitchenette with a fresh cup of coffee, rolling his eyes at the twelve year old granddaughter of their Chief Superintendent. Geralt had arrived in the middle of yet another dramatic reading of The Witcher Hour by young Cirilla, who actually seemed to be genuinely fascinated by the history Jaskier had included about the dwarf mining communities and their dissolution during the Thatcher years.

Geralt supposed this was one of the reasons he liked the child so much – she was clever and inquisitive and she liked to learn. He had never minded answering Ciri’s questions about monsters; had never begrudged loaning her his bestiary or his index of useful potions. She was a sponge, soaking up all the information they fed to her and she was truly a delight to have around.

“Did you know,” Ciri continued, suddenly sitting up straight and looking at him with her keen emerald eyes, “that Zoella tweeted about Jaskier’s blog because of me? I told my friend Siobhan, who told her older sister who knows some influencer who knows Zoella, and that’s the reason the blog got so famous so fast?”

Geralt frowned over the rim of his coffee mug as he leaned back against Triss’s desk.

“What the fuck is a Zoella?”

Ciri looked scandalised.

“She’s a very famous YouTuber, Geralt!” scolded Ciri.

“Oh,” muttered Geralt, “it sounded like some kind of infectious disease…”

He flinched slightly as Triss slapped him on the arm as a reprimand for his teasing. Geralt gave her a marginal smile before turning back to Ciri, who looked horrified.

“Geralt Rivia, I’m honestly appalled at your lack of popular culture knowledge. You do know what century you’re living in now, right?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Geralt replied, “and popular culture itself was appalling.”

Behind him, Triss chuckled.

“Geralt still wishes it was 1975,” she told Ciri with a grin.

Geralt snorted.

“No I don’t,” he groused, “everything about the Seventies was shit…except maybe the music. They had decent music but everything else about it was absolute bolloc…”

“WITCHER!”

Geralt stopped mid-sentence as Calanthe’s voice interrupted him. He turned to find her standing in the doorway of the Supernatural Crimes department; that sardonic smile of hers playing about her lips as she surveyed the bullpen with dark eyes.

“What?” he enquired.

Chief Superintendent Calanthe wasn’t a regular visitor to this part of the building. Every detective in the bullpen immediately put their heads down and tried to look as busy as possible, but Geralt met her gaze steadily, sipping his hot coffee.

Behind him, Ciri slid out of Geralt’s chair and tried to make herself invisible.

“I need you to liaise with the officers at Kentish Town police station,” Calanthe said, shortly; ignoring Geralt’s abruptness. “A body was found this morning in Camden, ripped to pieces apparently, and they’re asking for an expert opinion on a likely culprit.”

Geralt stiffened, his mind going straight to Jaskier. Camden was his neighbourhood and it made Geralt uneasy to think of a monster running loose in Jaskier’s back yard, especially with the man being a magnet for trouble.

“I’ll look in on it,” Geralt muttered, raising his coffee mug to his lips again.

“Now,” retaliated Calanthe.

She was using that voice again – the one with the hard, dangerous edge that reminded you that lesser beings had fucked with her and come off worst, and that it was best to shut up and do as you were told.

Geralt sighed and put his cup back down on the edge of Triss’s desk.

“Fine,” he groused.

“Oh, and take Pankratz with you,” Calanthe added. “I hear that blog of his is getting quite popular – it would be great publicity to have an account of you catching a treacherous murdering monster.”

Strangely, it hadn’t even occurred to Geralt _not_ to call Jaskier about this. The first time he’d had a case after being assigned his own personal blogger, Triss had had to pretty much talk Geralt into calling him and now, only two weeks later, Geralt couldn’t imagine doing this without Jaskier following behind him armed with a camera and razor-sharp wit.

“I’ll pick him up on the way,” Geralt assured Calanthe.

The Chief Superintendent gave a nod of satisfaction and turned around, leaving the department to breathe a collective sigh of relief. Geralt picked his coffee cup back up.

“Can I come?” asked a small voice by Geralt’s elbow.

He looked down to find Ciri sitting on the floor, knees hugged to her chest as she gazed at him with hopeful green eyes.

“To a murder scene?” said Geralt. “Not a fucking chance – you’re going to school.”

Ciri pouted at him.

“Oh but Geralt, I won’t be able to concentrate knowing that you and Jaskier are having yet another adventure together! I don’t want to have to read about it in the blog, I want to be there!”

Geralt sighed and glanced at Triss who just shrugged at him. Leaning over, Geralt hauled Ciri to her feet.

“You’re twelve,” he said, firmly, “and this isn’t an adventure, it’s a murder scene. It’s no place for a child and your grandmother would have my guts pulled out and made into a necklace if she knew we were even having this conversation.”

“But…”

“No,” Geralt growled.

Ciri looked at the floor dejectedly, but Geralt wouldn’t budge. As smart as the girl was, and as fascinated as she may be with all things monsters and magic, he was not about to let her tag along on a case like this.

Sighing, he patted the top of her silver-blonde hair comfortingly.

“Go to school,” he said as he scooped up his silver and steel swords, swinging them into place. “You’ve got plenty of years ahead to make your own adventures, Cirilla.”

Gulping the last of his coffee, Geralt fished his phone from the pocket of his back jeans and left the office without a backwards glance at Ciri’s petulant lip, dialling Jaskier’s number.

What a fucking morning this was turning out to be.

____

Jaskier startled awake at the sound of somebody hammering on his front door with such ferocity it seemed like it would buckle. He groaned loudly at the immense pain that immediately ripped through him – stabbing sharp through his brain and aching deep within his bones; his stomach roiling. The hammering was incessant and sent fresh waves of agony through him as he peeled his head from the pillow and rolled out of bed. At least his flat was warm now, he thought as he took step after painful, slow step across his bedroom floor, desperate to stop the banging on his front door and ease the pain in his head.

He felt awful, but the worst thing was, he couldn’t even remember drinking that much the night before. Sure, he’d been a little maudlin after watching Geralt kiss the stunningly beautiful Yennefer and he’d done a shot or two at the bar with that redhead to ease the ache in his chest. Jaskier had known the second he’d first seen the two of them together that Geralt and Yennefer had been an item and it seemed like they had a kind of on-and-off-again sort of arrangement that had been going on for the past thirty years.

Jaskier had spent the rest of his celebratory evening trying to get the image of that kiss out of his brain. Yes, he’d had maybe a couple more drinks than he usually would, but in truth he’d spent most of the night in the corner with that redhead’s lips against his ear; the music and chatter in the pub drowning out her sharp gasps and soft cries as Jaskier’s hand slipped under her skirt, past her underwear and slid two fingers deep into her sweet, wet warmth. It was enough of a distraction and he hadn’t brought her home or asked for her number.

Now, as Jaskier heavily plodded down the stairs, holding his splitting head between both hands it seemed like he was nursing the hangover from Hell. As quickly as he could manage, he slid the chain off and clicked open the Yale lock before wrenching the door open to find Geralt glowering at him; fist still raised from where he’d been beating the door.

“ _What?_ ” Jaskier spat; narrowing his eyes against the watery February sunshine.

Geralt’s eyebrows shot up.

“What the fuck happened to you?” he asked. “You look like absolute shit.”

Jaskier sighed and ran both hands up over his face and through his hair.

“I feel like absolute shit,” Jaskier muttered.

Everything hurt – his bones, his muscles, his nerves. Even his face ached; his fingernails. Jaskier blinked unsteadily at Geralt who was studying him like a dog with his head tilted to the side.

“There’s been a body found not far from here,” Geralt explained, “they want my professional opinion on whether or not it’s monster-related, but if you’re sick then maybe you should…”

“No,” Jaskier cut him off with a shake of his head that only sent another wave of stabbing pain through him. “No, I’ll be fine – I just need a quick shower…maybe a coffee…”

Geralt nodded and stepped over the threshold into Jaskier’s flat. Jaskier found himself gently manhandled back up the stairs, too drained to argue as Geralt shoved him in the direction of the bathroom.

The hot water helped the deep ache in his body and massaging shampoo into his hair went a little way to ease the throbbing headache. Jaskier felt a little more like himself as he emerged twenty minutes later, freshly washed and snuggled in his warmest sweater to find Geralt standing in his kitchen holding two takeaway cups of coffee from the deli down the street.

“Feeling better?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier gratefully accepted the cup of coffee Geralt offered to him, wrapping his shaking fingers around it.

“A bit,” he admitted. “So, what’s the deal with this body?”

The crime scene wasn’t all that far from Jaskier’s flat – a five minute drive if that – which disturbed him slightly. Camden had barely had the time to recover from the incubus-succubus tag team that had killed several and almost got Jaskier too if it hadn’t have been for Geralt, and now it was facing a potential monster on the loose.

Coffee made him feel a little better still as Geralt pulled his dark, unmarked car up beside the numerous white police vehicles, and Jaskier only shivered slightly as he got out and looked around. Camden market was, as usual, bright and bustling; busy even at this time of the morning with vendors and stall owners touting their wares. Jaskier loved Camden’s garishly-painted buildings and the eclectic vibrancy of it. Even the yellow police cordons and heavy uniformed presence couldn’t detract from the atmosphere of the place.

“Renfri!”

Jaskier turned as Geralt hailed the detective standing just beyond the first cordon. She was pretty – not in an ethereally beautiful way like Yennefer, but in a completely human way – with large brown doe-eyes and bobbed wavy hair; dimples that appeared in her cheeks when she saw Geralt and smiled.

“Well, well,” the detective replied as they approached the cordon, “If it isn’t the famous Witcher, Geralt Rivia! What are they calling you on the internet these days? The White Wolf?”

Geralt rolled his eyes.

“Not a fucking clue,” he replied with a sigh. “I hear you have a body for me to look at.”

Renfri grinned at him.

“Only if you’re not too busy being internet famous to help us lowly Kentish Town coppers,” she teased. Her brown eyes slid from Geralt to Jaskier standing behind him, somewhat obscured by Geralt’s bulk. “Who’s this?”

Geralt glanced over his shoulder briefly before turning back to her.

“Renfri, this is Jaskier – my…blogger. Jaskier, this is Detective Inspector Renfri Creyden.”

Jaskier knew the name well.

Renfri Creyden had been a fresh-faced Detective Constable when she arrested the infamous Black Sun Killer – a serial murderer who had stalked and killed women all born on the same day when a solar eclipse had occurred. The Killer had dissected his victims after death, claiming they were all mutated in some way. What had made Renfri so famous was that she’d shared her birthday with the victims and used herself as bait to lure the murderer. She had rocketed through the ranks since then and Jaskier could see why – she radiated competence and confidence in equal measures.

“Ah,” Renfri replied; her grin widening, “the man behind the monster hunter. Genius idea, by the way – following this grumpy old git around with a camera. You make him seem too heroic though, it’s not realistic.”

Jaskier felt himself smile.

“Surely that just means I’m really good at my job? I take the grumpy old Witcher and make sure people see the best of him.”

 _Like I do_ , he thought.

Jaskier was in love with Geralt’s empathy; his kindness; his gentleness – all hidden under almost a century’s-worth of self-preservation tactics that included a hostile glare, growled verbal responses, and an insistence that he was better off alone. Once you could crack that shell though – even if it was only a hairline fracture – you could see the real Geralt shining through. Jaskier only wanted the world to see it too.

Renfri laughed at him.

“I suppose so,” she mused.

Beside him, Geralt sighed.

“The body, Renfri,” he pressed.

“Right, yeah,” she chuckled, lifting the yellow police tape so they could both step under and into the crime scene. “It was found at six this morning by a shop owner – poor bloke had to be treated for shock at the hospital after seeing it.”

“That bad?” asked Geralt.

“See for yourself,” Renfri replied.

Jaskier wished she’d given them a little more preparation for it. As they stepped past the second police line and into West Yard, Jaskier could smell the metallic scent of blood before he saw it. It was everywhere – across the tarmac and spattered up the walls in high arcs – and the body wasn’t…whole. A left arm lay by the wall whilst the right sat on the opposite side of the street; the torso over by a dumpster; the legs, in bits. Jaskier’s stomach lurched and he clapped his hand over his mouth.

“Oi!” Renfri said, sharply, “If you’re going to throw up, get back behind the cordon – if you contaminate my crime scene, I’ll cut your balls off!”

Jaskier tried to swallow it down – the acidic bile mixed with coffee with swilled about his stomach – but he couldn’t. He turned and fled with the sting of vomit licking the back of his throat and Geralt’s voice calling his name ringing in his ears.

He retched over and over, bringing up the entire contents of his stomach and more against the wall beside some bins. Through his coughs and splutters, he heard the sound of Geralt’s heavy boots approach; felt Geralt’s large hand rubbing soothing circles on his back as he heaved his guts up.

“Easy,” Geralt murmured by his ear. “Easy…”

It seemed like hours later when Jaskier finally straightened, wiping his mouth with the back of his trembling hand as he looked into concerned gold eyes.

“I’m okay,” Jaskier gasped.

“You sure?” asked Geralt, frowning. “I should have just left you in bed…”

“No, I’m fine,” insisted Jaskier. “That just…took me by surprise, that’s all. When she said ‘body’ I expected…”

He trailed off and Geralt nodded in comprehension. Gently, he gave Jaskier’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

“Stay here,” he said, quietly, “I’ll be ten minutes looking at this and then we can go get you some food, okay?”

Jaskier leaned back against the cold brick wall in relief, nodding.

“Sounds good.”

____

It was incredible how much Jaskier felt much more human with ten chicken nuggets in his belly and the promise of ten more to come. His head had stopped pounding and even the bone-deep ache was subsiding as he slurped his large chocolate milkshake and ripped open another two sauce packets, watching as Geralt tackled the largest burger ever constructed.

Jaskier grinned as salad cascaded from the bun as Geralt bit into it, orange sauce dripping back into the box.

“Hold that pose,” Jaskier said, fishing his phone from his jacket pocket.

“Hmm?”

Geralt glanced up with a frown, his mouth full of burger and sauce smeared on his chin as Jaskier snapped a picture.

“Oh, perfect!” Jaskier enthused, “That’s going on The Witcher Hour’s Instagram page.”

Geralt made a noise of discontent, hastily chewing and swallowing his bite even as Jaskier uploaded it and quickly typed a caption.

“Delete that!”

“No, I shan’t,” replied Jaskier. “It makes you look normal – like even after a long day monster hunting, you still stop to shove fast food down your neck like the rest of us.”

“We’re here so you can line _your_ belly,” Geralt insisted.

Jaskier smiled at him and picked up a paper napkin, reaching over the table to gently blot the droplet of orange sauce from Geralt’s chin.

“And yet, here you are still scoffing the biggest burger in existence.”

“Hmm,” concurred Geralt, picking up his lunch again.

Chuckling softly, Jaskier slid his phone back into his pocket and dunked his eleventh chicken nugget in sweet and sour sauce.

“So, what was the verdict on the body?” he asked. “Was the deed done by monster or man?”

Geralt chewed thoughtfully; his gold eyes watching Jaskier thoroughly coat his nugget before nibbling delicately.

“Definitely not man,” mumbled Geralt around his mouthful. “I suppose it could have been done by a monster – there were bite-marks and claw marks on the flesh – but I think we’re going to have to wait for forensics and the medical examiner’s report before we can make a decision.”

“No initial ideas then?”

Geralt frowned.

“It’s dangerous to jump to conclusions,” he replied. “There aren’t many beasts with the strength to rip a grown man limb from limb, and even fewer that could make it all the way into the streets of Camden without being noticed. We may have to look into London’s were-creatures and that opens a whole can of worms you want to avoid wherever possible.”

“Were-creatures?” enquired Jaskier, “you mean like werewolves?”

“Amongst others,” Geralt confirmed; reaching over to take a sip from his drink. “The shapeshifting curse can take many animal forms – bear; ape; big cat; shark…”

“You don’t really think it’s a were-shark, do you? Swimming up the Thames and attacking people…”

Geralt raised his eyebrows.

“No, I don’t think it’s a were-shark…”

“Is there a proper name for a were-shark?” Jaskier continued, as though Geralt hadn’t spoken “Or a were-ape? Like a werewolf is a lycanthrope? Or do they all sort of fall under the lycanthropy category?”

“Fuck,” Geralt cursed softly, “At least we know you’re back to your normal fucking self now.”

Jaskier grinned at him and selected another chicken nugget.

“Why don’t we want to open that can of worms,” he enquired, seriously.

“Because,” replied Geralt, “it makes people afraid, and people who are afraid tend to lash out at marginalised groups. Those suffering from the infliction are closely monitored and are given regular medication to control the condition. They go through enough – they don’t need a witch hunt on top of that.”

It was interesting how Geralt spoke of it as though it were a disease and if Jaskier thought about it, he supposed Geralt was right. These people were victims in their own right, cursed to change against their will into an animal form and driven by basic instincts to hunt and kill. They couldn’t help it and they had certainly never asked for it to happen to them. Jaskier couldn’t imagine having to live with something like that.

“So…we wait?”

Geralt shrugged.

“It’s really all we can do,” Geralt replied, “I mean, there _is_ somebody we could consult on a case like this…but she’s been banned for life from consulting for the Met…”

“Yennefer,” murmured Jaskier, a frown pulling at his brow. “Is she some kind of were-creature expert as well as being the British Museum’s curator of magical artefacts?”

Geralt huffed softly in amusement.

“No, but she’s spent time all over the world studying curses – South America, Africa, Asia – if anyone could shed some light on whether or not this could be a cursed being like a werewolf or a were-bear, then it’s her.”

Jaskier didn’t exactly like the idea. Not because he disliked Yennefer – although she could crush him like a bug and that was frankly terrifying – but because he liked these moments with Geralt when it was just the two of them. He knew Geralt enjoyed his company, even if he tried to deny it – Geralt Rivia did not seem like the type to suffer fools gladly, and if Jaskier really, truly irritated him, he was sure Geralt would have sent him off by now.

It may have been rocky at first, but they were settling into some kind of routine; they were learning each other; developing…a friendship. Jaskier loved it – the danger, the adventure, the unpredictability of his life since meeting the Witcher. He would do this forever if Geralt allowed it.

“Maybe we could make an informal visit after we eat,” Jaskier suggested as he reached over the table to steal a solitary fry from Geralt’s plate, “you know – just a chat between friends?”

Geralt looked at him; the softness in his gold eyes and the ghost of a smile playing on his lips turning Jaskier’s knees to jelly.

“I think we could get away with that,” agreed Geralt, quietly.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've not yet said how happy I am that you're all enjoying this little AU. Thank you all so much for your support. Your comments and love all make my day <3


	8. No Chance, No Way - I won't Say it, No, No...

Yennefer swiped through the crime scene photographs on Geralt’s phone as she bit heartily into her tuna and cucumber sandwich. Geralt and Jaskier had pulled up chairs around her small lunchtime table in the corner of the British Museum’s Court Café with the hustle and bustle of tourists and school groups around them; voices echoing in the cavernous forum.

It was a tight squeeze – the three of them crowded around the table Yennefer always chose on purpose because it comfortably sat one and discouraged anyone else from trying to join her. Today, she made an exception on account of a very interesting murder.

In all honesty, Yennefer had been surprised to receive Geralt’s text asking to meet, and even more surprised to find he didn’t have a romantic lunchtime rendez-vous in mind when he slid her the photos of a decimated corpse. Her interest was definitely piqued.

She frowned at the images of a man’s body in pieces with large claw marks raking the flesh of the torso, arms, and legs which all lay in different parts of the street. It was horrific – the spatter and the pooling of blood around the limbs telling her immediately that the victim had been very much alive when he’d been torn apart.

“And you don’t think this is a creature?” Yennefer asked, glancing up at Geralt who raised one eyebrow.

“What makes you believe I don’t think it’s a creature?” Geralt replied.

A slow smile spread across Yennefer’s face.

“Because you’re here,” she said, simply.

Next to him, Jaskier ducked his head to hide his grin and Yennefer felt the smug satisfaction of knowing she’d been right.

Geralt sighed as she handed his phone back to him.

“You’re right, I don’t think it’s a creature,” Geralt conceded. “A creature wouldn’t tear a body to pieces like that and not eat any of it.”

Yennefer frowned again.

“Yeah,” she said softly, “that rules out a fair few suspects.”

Yennefer was no expert on monsters like Geralt, but she knew enough. Animals hunted for meat and rarely for sport – not even the monstrous ones – and have a body with no flesh or organs missing or blood drained…well, that was just peculiar.

Geralt glanced around him and then leaned forward, dropping his voice so they would not be overheard.

“I want your opinion – could this have been done by somebody under a Therianthropy Curse?”

Yennefer had to admit, she’d been thinking it – the curse of the shapeshifter – a human who could morph into an animal, either at will or not depending on the curse’s particulars.

“That depends,” Yennefer replied; setting aside her sandwich and looking Geralt levelly in the eye, “Are you asking me in a professional capacity or a personal one?”

Geralt sat back with a heavy sigh.

“You know I can’t ask you to officially consult on this,” he muttered.

Yennefer bristled, crossing her arms over her chest. Calanthe really was going to hold that incident over Yen’s head for the rest of her life, wasn’t she?

Setting his bottle of water aside, Jaskier spoke up.

“I’m sorry, but what the fuck is Therianthropy?”

Geralt raised his eyebrow at Yennefer and she sighed.

“Humans that change into an animal form,” Yennefer explained, resignedly.

Jaskier’s cornflower-blue eyes brightened and he turned to look at Geralt.

“Oh…so there  _ is _ a collective term for were-creatures!”

Geralt smiled – not a full smile of course, but the barest raise of the corner of his mouth that often signified his amusement.

“It’s not just were-creatures,” continued Yennefer; slowly unfurling her arms, “The most common type of Therianthrope are those cursed by the bite, where the disease was transmitted by saliva of another cursed individual. The UK’s population of were-creatures is very well documented and they all receive counselling and medication to repress their symptoms, but there was no cure.”

Jaskier leaned forward, fascinated. Yennefer had to admit she was very taken by Jaskier’s curiosity; the way it seemed to be ingrained in his entire being to ask questions and learn. It was flattering in a way to have somebody hang on to her every word like that; to be listened to and taken seriously.

“What are the other types?” he asked.

Yennefer felt herself smile.

“Those cursed by magic – by witches and fae – to shift as punishment for a wrongdoing or vendetta or just for the sake of mischief. They can range in severity, from something as deep and powerful and terrible as creating a Striga, to turning a person into a toad.”

Jaskier laughed lightly.

“Is that one broken by a kiss from a princess?”

“There are many ways to break a curse,” Yennefer said with a slight shrug of her shoulders, “A lot of fairy tales tell of curses being broken by true-love’s kiss and all that crap, and some are tied to fate. Some require a sacrifice to break it, or heavy magic, or just sheer persistence. It really just all depends on how the curse manifested in the first place.”

“That is fascinating,” Jaskier murmured, “So, there’s a chance that this could have been committed by a Therianthrope? Somebody under a curse?”

Yennefer had to laugh. Once again, all Geralt had had to do to get her to comply was let Jaskier talk – first with the dwarves and now this. She couldn’t even be mad, not when Jaskier was genuinely interested in what Yennefer had to say.

“Yeah,” she replied, softly, “yeah, I think there’s a very good chance.”

Beside Jaskier, Geralt nodded.

“Thank you,” Geralt said, “We still have to wait for Renfri to get back to me with the forensics – God only knows how long that will take – and the medical examiner still has to confirm if it’s death by Supernatural causes before the case is officially handed over to us, but…”

“Are you going to keep me in the loop?” Yennefer interrupted.

Geralt frowned, but his expression softened immediately when Jaskier reached out and lightly brushed the sleeve of his jacket.

“Oh Geralt, please,” begged Jaskier. “Calanthe doesn’t have to know! I mean, it’s not a crime to discuss the particulars of a case with a friend over dinner, is it?”

“Yes,” replied Geralt.

“Ah,” Jaskier murmured.

Yennefer grinned at them both.

“Jaskier is right – Calanthe doesn’t have to know,” she said, “and let’s face it, having me as your… _ unofficial consultant _ will just make everything go so much more smoothly.”

Geralt chuckled at that – a deep, low rumble in his chest that shook his broad shoulders.

“You two are going to get me into too much trouble,” he said, shaking his head gently.

Jaskier and Yennefer smirked at each other, their expressions both mischievous and triumphant.

Oh, but Yennefer had missed this – the excitement and the adventure. She’d taken her current job after she’d grown tired of travelling. Yennefer went through these phases from time to time; of wanting to be free and unhindered; to travel and explore and to follow the call of the unknown. And then there were times when she craved a home; craved the stability of being in the same place; of having a routine.

That phase never lasted too long. She’d been five years now at the British Museum and although she’d gained respect and renown in her position here, Yennefer’s life had grown stagnant and boring. She needed this – it had been too long since she’d sunk her teeth into a good mystery and this one came with the extra added bonus of Geralt Rivia…and Jaskier.

Despite the rocky start, Yennefer actually found she liked Jaskier’s sharp wit and inquisitive mind. The fact that he was also exceptionally pretty didn’t harm things either.

She smiled as Jaskier drummed his fingertips lightly on the edge of the table and stood up.

“On that note,” he announced, “I’m going to get some cake. Can I get anyone anything?”

Geralt and Yennefer both shook their heads and Jaskier sauntered away with Geralt’s gold eyes watching him, fondly.

Yennefer smirked.

“For somebody who insists there’s nothing going on, there’s certainly a lot of fondness in that gaze.”

Geralt looked at her and sighed.

“Yen, can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” Yennefer replied.

Geralt sat back in his chair, his eyes drifting back to Jaskier who was perusing the array of cake stands inside the café.

“That vase he touched – do you think whatever magic was inside of it could…make him ill?”

Yennefer frowned. Since the incident, she’d looked at that vase several times and it wasn’t giving up any of its secrets. Just as it had been before Jaskier touched it, the vase gave off no more energy than a spot of background residual magic.

“Why do you ask?”

Geralt sighed, softly.

“When I went to pick him up this morning to go to the crime scene he…wasn’t himself. He was irritable, pale…he vomited when he saw the body.”

“Well that’s not exactly unusual,” Yennefer replied, “I would say the vast majority of people are squeamish upon seeing a corpse ripped to bits. Not everyone has your strong stomach.”

“Hmm,” Geralt conceded.

Yennefer followed his gaze to where Jaskier was, flirting with the woman behind the counter who had to be twice his age but who handed him a slice of cake twice as big as she would have served anyone else.

“He seems fine now,” continued Yennefer, “and besides, we were all out drinking last night. It sounds a lot to me like it was just a hangover.”

“Hmm,” Geralt muttered again, “you could be right…”

Inside the café, Jaskier paid for his cake and began happily weaving his way back to them between the crowded tables.

“I’ll keep digging,” Yennefer said, quietly. “The vase came in a shipment from Iran – I’ll contact my person over there and see if I can get more information on what site it came from; ask if they have any idea what was in it, but it could take some time.”

Geralt nodded.

“Thank you,” he replied, just as Jaskier reached the table and sat down with the largest slice of cherry coconut cake Yennefer had ever seen cut at the British Museum.

“Lovely, obliging staff in this place,” Jaskier said, cheerfully; picking up his dessert fork to dig in.

Yennefer and Geralt exchanged a small smile, and Yennefer looked on with curiosity as Geralt watched Jaskier tuck in heartily.

Something had shifted, she could tell. Geralt liked to pretend that he didn’t care about people; that he was only out to look after himself, but Yennefer knew better. Jaskier was growing on him and, if she wasn’t completely mistaken, Geralt was starting to realise it.

____

“Uh…Geralt?” enquired Jaskier, his head turning to look out of the passenger window as Geralt went past the turn off for his Camden flat. “Where exactly are we going?”

“Sainsbury’s,” Geralt replied as he continued down the road towards the supermarket, “so you can get some food.”

“Ah,” said Jaskier, softly. “That’s actually a really good idea. I’ve got nothing in my house that’s edible.”

“I know,” Geralt muttered.

Stealing a glance at Jaskier sitting next to him, Geralt had to admit that he certainly looked better than he had that morning. Jaskier’s cheeks had colour back in them; dimples returning along with his smile, and he sat up straighter, tapping out a beat against his knee with his fingers.

Maybe Yennefer had been right – maybe Jaskier’s feeling unwell had been on account of drinking too much and not the product of some ancient Persian magic trapped for centuries in a jar. All the same, Geralt was reluctant to leave Jaskier alone again. For his own peace of mind, of course.

He glanced at Jaskier again and almost crashed the car when he found those cornflower-blue eyes watching him; a smirk playing across Jaskier’s lips.

“What?”

Jaskier’s grin widened.

“You just want me to cook for you again, don’t you?” Jaskier said, playfully.

Geralt’s lips twitched into half a smile.

“Hmm,” he responded.

“Oh come on, admit it,” countered Jaskier, “you loved having your meals cooked for you when I stayed at your flat.”

“You were there three days!”

“And you got nine meals cooked for you from scratch,” Jaskier replied. “You cleared your plate every time.”

Geralt had to admit he had enjoyed it. He’d enjoyed everything about those three days – the company, the cooking, the singing that could be heard from any room in the flat.

“That’s true,” Geralt conceded.

Jaskier murmured a satisfied sound and sat back in his seat, grinning.

Geralt didn’t want to like it. The whole idea of letting somebody new into his life; of letting them in close…that was terrifying, but he couldn’t pretend to himself anymore that he didn’t care about Jaskier. This one was under his skin and Geralt was just going to have to find a way to deal with that.

Grocery shopping had never been his favourite thing to do, but Geralt found he liked pushing the trolley around whilst Jaskier bounded through the aisles like an excited puppy, chatting away to him as he deliberated the merits of supermarket brand tinned tomatoes against named brand; voicing his views on almost every foodstuff that made it into the trolley.

At least Jaskier’s flat was warm now; the dampness mostly evaporated even if the smell lingered in the air and made Geralt’s nose wrinkle.

“Why do you live in this shit hole?” Geralt asked as they carried armfuls of grocery bags up the stairs to the flat.

Jaskier dumped his bags on the kitchen floor and shrugged.

“It’s cheap,” he confessed, “and you may remember I was quite impoverished until very recently.”

“Yeah, that’s another thing I don’t quite understand,” Geralt replied; walking over to the fridge and beginning to load it up with fresh vegetables and packs of meat. “How does a person graduate from Cambridge with a first class degree and masters, and end up freezing his bony arse off in a shitty flat with no food or a penny to their name?”

Jaskier halted in the middle of unpacking his tinned goods and turned.

“Well, that’s a bit of a long story,” Jaskier said, quietly.

“Am I going to regret asking?” enquired Geralt with a raised brow.

Jaskier threw him a lopsided grin.

“Probably.”

Geralt nodded, crossed over to the counter, and opened the bag containing several bottles of wine.

“In that case,” he said, “we might need to sink a couple of glasses of this before you tell me that story. Now – what are you cooking for me?”

Jaskier’s blue eyes shone as he reached into the drawer and tossed Geralt the bottle opener.

“Steak, asparagus, and new potatoes with parsley butter,” Jaskier announced.

“Hmm,” replied Geralt, “sounds good.”

It  _ was _ good.

Geralt had spent too many years living off bread, cheese, and cold meats; or ordering takeout; or eating at little side-street cafes that didn’t charge too much. He wasn’t used to healthy, delicious, home cooked meals eating at a kitchen table, and he certainly wasn’t used to eating them in the company of pretty boys with sparkling eyes and dimples who laughed at his bad jokes and made him feel…wanted.

But that could have been the Merlot speaking, heavy and warm and rich in Geralt’s belly, flooding his veins and curling around his senses; lowering his inhibitions.

It was only when they’d finished their food and drank a whole bottle of wine, and had settled on Jaskier’s couch with a second bottle that Geralt asked again.

“So,” he began, softly, “are you going to tell me that story?”

Jaskier gave him a small smile as he shuffled on the couch so he was sitting sideways; a foot tucked under him and an arm slung over the back; one hand supporting his head and the other cradling a full, fresh glass of wine.

“Are you sure you want to know?”

Geralt sighed, softly.

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t,” he said.

Jaskier looked at him in the lamplight - his bright eyes darkened to almost navy – and nodded.

“Alright,” Jaskier murmured, “so…my name, as you already know, is actually Julian Alfred Pankratz…and my family is rich as fuck.”

“Well, there’s a huge surprise,” Geralt muttered, sarcastically.

It earned him a gentle slap on the arm, and Geralt felt himself smile.

“Anyway,” Jaskier continued, “I didn’t grow up unhappy or neglected – I was a smart and charming child and I did incredibly well academically. My family pushed me to read politics at Cambridge, which I  _ did _ enjoy, but…it wasn’t what I wanted to do with the rest of my life, you know?”

Geralt nodded.

He could see Jaskier making a pretty decent politician – he had the charisma to win people over, the intelligence, the drive – but he could also see such a career dampening the light in those cornflower-blue eyes; dulling that natural curiosity and blunting that sharp wit.

“You wanted to go into journalism,” Geralt prompted.

Jaskier nodded, slowly.

“Which my parents obviously hated,” replied Jaskier. “They begged me at first – told me I was making a huge mistake; that it was a foolish move; that I’d end up failing. I did it anyway and they cut me off; told me that they wouldn’t endorse such foolhardiness and if I wanted to pursue my folly, I had to do it by myself.”

Geralt frowned over his wine glass.

“They were supportive until you wanted to go down your own path,” he muttered, “but I still don’t understand – you obviously sailed through your journalism masters, so why on earth are you not working for The Guardian or The Observer or…whatever?”

Jaskier sighed and took a sizable gulp of his wine before responding.

“Because that’s not me, either,” Jaskier said, softly. “I don’t want to waste my whole life sitting behind a desk, typing articles of no consequence. I want to be out there, finding the stories that make a difference; I want to discover the things that really matter; I want to change opinions and make people sit up and take notice and really  _ think _ about what’s going on around them. I don’t want to just report the news.”

Geralt could feel himself begin to smile. Fuck, but the kid was a romantic idealist…and it was one of the best things about him - stupid, stubborn, and brave beyond measure.

“Is that why you started this blog?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier shot him a guilty look.

“Honestly?” said Jaskier, “I really believed I was going to end up dying in the gutter until I met you. I’m afraid to say I saw an opportunity and I took it – a Witcher who hunts monsters for a living would be exciting source material – and then I discovered it was much more than that. You were much more than that; more than the stories and the myths and…”

Jaskier trailed off, a pink flush rushing to his cheeks as he looked away and drained his glass of wine.

Geralt’s heart was beating faster than normal as he stared down into the velvet red richness of his Merlot. Right from the start, Jaskier had pitched this as a mutually beneficial arrangement and Geralt supposed it had been in a manner of speaking…but not quite the way he’d expected.

“I suppose,” Jaskier continued, “that I never really thanked you properly for putting up with all my nonsense.”

Geralt huffed a soft laugh.

“It hasn’t been that bad,” he admitted.

Jaskier blinked softly at him, cradling his head in the crook of his elbow.

“Really?” Jaskier whispered.

“Really,” murmured Geralt.

Jaskier’s smile was like sunshine from behind a cloud, lighting up his whole face with happiness as his eyes fluttered closed.

“That’s good,” Jaskier said, contentedly; his voice slow with wine and sleepiness.

His eyes stayed closed; his breathing growing steady and slow after a moment, and Geralt sighed as his head fell back against the soft cushion of the couch, just watching Jaskier sleep.

Fuck.

Geralt hadn’t meant for this to go so far. From the second he’d admitted to himself that he gave a crap about Jaskier, this thing had snowballed almost out of control – from his sexual fantasy that morning to sitting there on Jaskier’s couch, staring at him. Geralt could smell that fresh red apple scent of Jaskier’s shampoo as a lock of sandy brown hair fell across his eyes, and he reached out to gently brush it back.

He could get used to this – to spending evenings talking and drinking; to passing his days with Jaskier following him on his cases; to the dinners and Jaskier’s singing and his chaotic energy. Damn it, but Geralt could even feel the ache in his chest of the void that begged to be filled with it, and yet, as his heart screamed at him to run with it, his mind told him to run away.

Geralt knew he had to be careful; had to inch into this thing so it wouldn’t shock his system. He’d been alone for so long –too long – with the exception of the force of nature that was Yennefer Vengerberg who turned his world upside down every time she entered it and left destruction in her wake. He yearned for something steadier, for a friend, for a companion and as he stared at the sleeping Jaskier beside him, Geralt realised he might have found what he’d been yearning for…

…but he had to tread carefully.

“Come on,” Geralt murmured, draining his glass and setting it aside the with the glass he prised from Jaskier’s fingers, “Let’s get you to bed.”

Jaskier mumbled sleepily as Geralt hauled him up and over his shoulder, barely stirring as he was carried through his flat to the bedroom. Carefully, Geralt turned down the duvet and gently lowered Jaskier to the bed, taking his weight as he lay him down and tucked him, fully clothed, into the covers. As Geralt straightened and began to move away, Jaskier reached out and caught the little finger on Geralt’s left hand.

“Stay…” Jaskier mumbled.

His eyes were still closed; still mostly asleep. Geralt swallowed hard. He had the best part of a bottle of wine in his belly and was in no fit state to drive home. His plan had been to just crash on Jaskier’s lumpy couch and maybe drive back in the early hours once the alcohol was out of his system…but he remembered how good Jaskier felt in his arms and how silky that sandy hair was against his skin, and Jaskier was asking him to stay.

Cautiously, Geralt skirted the bed and slipped under the duvet on the empty side. Before he had even settled, Jaskier was curling into him; seeking out Geralt’s warmth and wrapping his ankle over Geralt’s calf; a soft hand slipping beneath Geralt’s t-shirt.

Geralt sighed gently and resigned himself to pulling Jaskier close and breathing in that delicious apple scent as he pushed his fingertips through silky-soft strands.

Yes, he was going to have to be careful. But not tonight. 

  
  



	9. Mummies, Monsters, and Mages - Oh My!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, this is the threesome chapter! Featuring that white shirt Joey Batey looks so fuckin good in!

Never in his entire life had Geralt expected to be doing this.

He was used to having Ciri around during school holidays, mostly milling around the office reading books and eating crisps, sometimes playing on her Nintendo DS and mostly staying out of Calanthe’s hair. She’d never been a spot of bother until she’d met Jaskier.

There hadn’t been much in the way of cases in the last week even though Geralt had received all the paperwork and evidence from the Camden murder from Renfri Creyden, and was following up the odd lead. Jaskier was bored, lounging about the place, sighing dramatically, and driving Geralt up the wall. It was all Jaskier’s fault that they’d ended up on the impromptu field trip to the British Museum with the granddaughter of the Met’s Chief Super.

Ciri and Jaskier had bonded incredibly quickly. Jaskier was patient and charming and full of stories that made Ciri hang onto his every word. The child was utterly besotted and Geralt had to admit he couldn’t blame her. Unfortunately, the pair of them together meant Geralt wouldn’t get a single moment’s peace until he bent to their whim, which is how he ended up abandoning his work to play glorified babysitter.

Geralt sighed heavily, ignoring the whispers of people as he passed them – dressed head to toe in black, white hair unbound and falling to his shoulders, and two enormous swords strapped to his person – and the snaps of phone cameras as they recognised the now-famous Geralt Rivia. He concentrated on Jaskier and Ciri as they bounded past the museum barrier and into Hintze Hall with it’s blue whale skeleton suspended from the ceiling.

“Stop, stop!” Jaskier laughed; grabbing hold of Ciri’s coat and pulling her to a halt.

The girl frowned at him.

“What?” she asked.

Jaskier beckoned to her as he plopped himself down on the floor and began to lie flat.

“Lie down,” he insisted.

“Jaskier, what the fuck…?” Geralt began, amidst the titters of museum punters around them.

Jaskier just beamed prettily at him and pointed upwards as Ciri lay down next to him without further question and gasped. Geralt looked up.

He didn’t know how he hadn’t noticed them before – over a hundred delicately hand-painted panels of flowers and plants lined the ceiling; the images so slight that one could quite obviously mistake them for just plain tiles.

“When the museum was built,” Jaskier explained to Ciri, who was holding Jaskier’s phone above her face and zooming in with the camera to see them more clearly, “the botanical paintings were originally cut from the plans but later reinstated at the insistence of the museum’s architect.”

“They’re beautiful,” Ciri breathed.

Geralt felt himself smile as his enhanced eyesight picked out the intricate details of Indian pear trees and ginko, cacao and good old English lavender, bathed in golden sunlight from outside.

“How the fuck did you know these were here?” Geralt asked Jaskier. “This museum isn’t that much older than me and I had no idea they existed.”

Jaskier smiled softly as he sat up again and pushed his hair back from his face.

“It’s easy to miss things when you’re not looking for them,” he answered simply.

“Hmm,” Geralt agreed.

Once Jaskier had answered all of Ciri’s questions on the ceiling panels, they began to make their way through the museum together. It was almost like being in charge of two children – Jaskier’s joy and enthusiasm matched, if not surpassed Ciri’s as they hopped and skipped their way through the exhibits, pressing their noses up against the glass and making up silly games as Geralt trailed behind and watched them fondly.

It felt strange to Geralt – wanting to let himself want somebody, but not really knowing how to go about it. The night he’d spent in Jaskier’s bed, Geralt had carefully slipped out at three in the morning and Jaskier had never brought it up. Geralt didn’t know if it was just that Jaskier didn’t remember it or if he was being polite, but Geralt had berated himself several times in the past week for leaving.

He’d liked sharing the bed, liked the heavy comfort of Jaskier’s body in his arms and the soft snores and that mouth-watering scent of apple. But Witchers weren’t made to be domestic, to be partnered, to belong and that’s what Geralt was struggling with most. He’d adapted to the times – he’d gone from a nomadic hunter to owning a home amongst the people who’d been afraid of his kind for centuries – Geralt had, for the most part, settled…so why was it so difficult for him to accept that he could maybe have a stable relationship with somebody?

A scream rang out further down the corridor and Geralt was jolted from his reverie, head turning in the direction of the noise as several other screams joined the first. Jaskier, who had been laughing with Ciri over a badly taxidermied platypus, immediately straightened and looked at Geralt seriously.

“What’s that?”

Geralt frowned, his feet already taking him in the direction of the commotion.

“I don’t know,” he replied.

Another sound joined the screams – a low rumble that made the ground beneath Geralt’s feet tremble and he realised it was the sound of a stampede. Whatever was causing the hysteria, people were running from it.

“Geralt!”

He turned at the hint of panic in Jaskier’s voice, following that cornflower-blue gaze to where a baboon skeleton sat behind a glass wall. It was twitching – bones held together by wires and pins beginning to move as though slowly coming to life.

“What the fuck?” Geralt muttered, drawing his silver sword in one smooth movement and picking up pace. “Stay close!” he called over his shoulder to Jaskier and Ciri who were already hurrying to catch up.

All around them, more skeletons twitched and writhed on their stands; pinned in place by metal but struggling to break free. People began to stream past them, stampeding towards the exits and pushing and shoving to get away from whatever as scaring them as fast as possible. Geralt turned and scooped Ciri and Jaskier up in his arms, depositing them in an alcove next to a Greek statue.

“Stay here and keep Ciri safe,” Geralt told Jaskier, who frowned.

“What? Are you joking?”

“Why would I be joking?” Geralt retaliated. “This had necromancy written all over it. I need you to call Triss and tell her to get down here immediately, then I need you to do as you’re goddamn told and keep Ciri safe.”

Jaskier’s blue eyes surveyed the crowds of fleeing people, his mouth pressed into a thin line of annoyance.

“And what are you going to do?”

Geralt quickly unfastened his steel sword and dropped it by Jaskier’s feet, knowing he could move faster without it weighing him down.

“I’m going to find the necromancer.”

____

Yennefer frowned as her phone rang, cutting off the music she’d been listening to through her earphones as she studied the strange Persian vase that still refused to give up any secrets. Sighing heavily, she pulled her phone from her pocket and looked at the screen.

_ Geralt _ .

She ripped her earphones out and answered the call.

“Where the fuck are you?” Geralt growled, not even waiting for her to greet him.

Yennefer’s frown deepened as she picked up on the background noise of screams.

“Me?” she said, “I’m at work! Where the fuck are  _ you _ ?”

“I’m at your work too,” replied Geralt. “There’s a necromancer on the loose.”

Immediately, Yen slid from her chair and ran to the door, pulling it open and sticking her head out into the corridor. She could clearly hear the same screams and yells from the floor below.

“Fuck,” Yennefer muttered. She had a horrible feeling that she knew exactly what this was. “Location?”

“Central hall,” Geralt answered, “by the Café.”

Yennefer ended the call and shoved her phone back into her pocket. Taking a deep breath, she concentrated her thoughts on the museum’s central hall and opened a portal.

It was deserted save for Geralt standing alone with his silver sword resting easy in his grip. He raised an eyebrow as she stepped through her portal to join him.

“What happened?” Yennefer asked, her voice echoing eerily in the abandoned hall.

“Skeletons began to move,” Geralt muttered, “and then all the people fled from there.”

He pointed his sword towards one of the corridors and Yennefer rolled her eyes.

“Ancient Egypt?” she groaned, “Oh, Fringilla…that’s so unoriginal.”

Geralt looked at her.

“Fringilla? Isn’t that one of your Arethusa friends?”

Yennefer grimaced as they began to walk towards the exhibit.

“ _ Friend _ isn’t quite the correct term for what Fringilla and I are.”

“Former classmate then,” continued Geralt, “What did you do?”

Yen shot him a hurt look.

“What makes you think I did anything?”

Geralt snorted.

“Please, Yenna,” he said, “you keep forgetting I know just how prickly you are. A sorceress doesn’t just decide to raise the dead inside the British Museum unless the resident mage is asking for it.”

Yennefer sighed. Geralt was right – he knew her too well.

“Oh, alright,” she conceded. “So we might have had a bit of a class reunion a few weeks ago and for some reason we got onto the subject of forbidden magic. Fringilla was going on and on about how ridiculous it was to ban certain magic and putting limitations of sorcerers…I think I might have told Fringilla that she’d never be able to raise an army of the dead because necromancy is absolutely illegal and also she’s a talentless old goat.”

Geralt’s gold eyes widened, and then he started to laugh.

Oh but Geralt laughing was such a rare sight and had been getting rarer in his old age, but this was the second time she’d heard it within a week; the second time she’d seen his usually sour face light up with amusement. Yennefer found she’d missed it terribly.

“Of course,” Geralt chuckled, “only you would tell a powerful sorceress that she’s a talentless old goat.”

“She’s not as powerful as me,” muttered Yen.

“And yet, she’s strong enough to stir some skeletons into action. I’m guessing mummies too. It’s like an episode of Scooby-Doo.”

“Except the mummies won’t turn out to be an old white man wrapped in bandages,” Yennefer replied with a grin.

Geralt shook his head at her in amusement, adjusting his grip on his sword and raising it into a defensive stance as they entered the Egypt exhibit.

They stepped carefully – Geralt’s enhanced golden eyes sweeping the dark corners as Yennefer raised her hands and reached out to the Chaos, feeling the magic prickle at her fingertips.

“Fringilla!” she called, looking around her, “I know it’s you Fringilla. You made your point and I take it back – you’re  _ not _ a talentless old goat.”

Her voice echoed back at her, but there was no reply from Fringilla. Yennefer glanced at Geralt and he shrugged in response.

Suddenly, she heard the sound of scuffling – a slow, methodical scraping of something heavy across the floor – and she looked wildly around her. From the corners of the room, the reanimated corpses of Egypt’s richest and finest shuffled towards them, linen bandages ripped to shreds around their legs and arms where they had fought to move against their bindings. Clawlike hands reached for her as they closed in, moving forward on desiccated limbs that should have snapped and fallen apart by now if not for the magic that held them together.

Necromantic spells were different to anything else Yennefer had ever experienced. All magic had a taste or a scent specific to it; all different; all unique. Necromantic magic was…hot; metallic. Just the taste of it in the air burned her throat and made her feel like she was swallowing molten lava; the scent of it like charred flesh.

“Fringilla!” Yennefer tried again, moving closer to Geralt who watched the advancing corpses carefully. “Come on, you’ve more than made your point. Call off your jackals and come out.”

“I don’t think she’s coming out,” Geralt muttered.

He rocked lightly on his feet, back and forth, his sword raised. Yennefer cursed under her breath – they were going to have to fight these things.

Magic awarded the mummies more strength, speed, and agility than a reanimated corpse should have. They closed in on Yennefer and Geralt, moving faster, standing straighter until one suddenly lunged at her.

It was a proper melee, Yennefer pushing back the British Museum’s priceless mummies with Aard and Geralt deflecting their strikes with his sword. In addition to the human corpses, there were many mummified animals including a crocodile and several jackals snapping at them.

“FUCK IT!” Yennefer screamed as she propelled the same mummy away from her for the fourth time.

They just kept coming. The necromantic magic that moved their limbs wouldn’t fade until the spell was lifted and Yennefer would be fighting them until all her Chaos was used up. Was Fringilla actively trying to kill her?

There wasn’t anything for her to use in this room. Mages could bend nature’s laws to their will; they could amplify…but she couldn’t conjure something from nothing without great cost to themselves. Yennefer wished she had matches so she could create a spark and turn it into a fireball. The dry, stick limbs would ignite faster than the blink of an eye…of course, the entire exhibit would be destroyed.

Yennefer felt a tug on the back of her shirt; a spindly hand closing around her throat from the back. She was about to hurl a spell at it when the sound of ceramic smashing reached her ears and the hand fell away abruptly. Yennefer turned to find Jaskier standing there, a mummy crumpled at his feet and the remnants of a canopic jar shattered on the floor.

“Jaskier!” Yennefer exclaimed in surprise. Her eyes dropped to the smashed jar littering the ground. “Did…you just destroy a priceless artefact?”

Jaskier shrugged, grinning at her.

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” he replied.

Yennefer felt herself returning his grin.

“Deal,” she agreed.

He had just saved her life, after all.

____

“CIRI!” Jaskier yelled as the girl took off down the corridor at speed with his phone in hand.

The girl’s long silver-blonde hair whipped about her face as she turned around to look at him; her emerald green eyes full of excitement at the sounds of fighting coming from the Egypt exhibit.

“Come on!” she called back, “If we hurry we can get some footage for your blog!”

Jaskier looked helplessly at her as she bounded off again. If he’d been on his own, he would have ran after Geralt in an instant but as it stood, Jaskier was trying his damnedest to be a responsible adult for once. Geralt had asked him to stay put and keep Ciri safe, and that’s what he’d been attempting to do for the past fifteen minutes, trying to talk Ciri into just waiting. He’d evidently just lost that battle.

Groaning in frustration, Jaskier looked down at the steel sword Geralt had dumped at his feet before taking off. Jaskier knew he could leave it and just run after Ciri, but something told him he might need it. The sword was far too big for him, he knew that – he didn’t have Geralt’s musculature or his Witcher-enhanced strength and the thing looked like it weighed a ton – he’d never be able to wield it.

In a split second’s decision, Jaskier scooped the sword up in both arms and hurtled after the girl. It was surprisingly lighter than he’d expected – not  _ light _ , obviously – he could feel his muscles straining under the weight of it as he ran, but it was like carrying several bags of heavy groceries from the tube station to his flat. Nothing he couldn’t handle.

Jaskier skidded to a halt behind Ciri as they reached the Egypt exhibit and his mouth dropped open as he took in the sight beyond the entrance..

Geralt looked incredible – the silver blade of his sword catching the light as he parried with the flat side, trying not to do damage the mummies that clawed and lunged at him. Yennefer fought off a bandaged jackal with a well-aimed spell; her long black hair streaming out behind her as she spun about to face her next adversary. They were the most stunning creatures Jaskier had ever seen in his entire life.

Jaskier glanced down at Ciri and noticed she was filming the whole thing on his phone.

He looked up again just in time to see a mummy sneak up behind Yennefer, reaching for her with talon-like brown hands wrapped in shredded bandages. Jaskier dropped the sword and ran forward, swiping an exquisitely carved ceramic jar with the head of an Egyptian God as it’s lid from a plinth, and bringing it crashing down on the back of the corpse’s neck.

Yennefer spun around again; stunning violet eyes widening upon seeing him.

“Jaskier!” she said, looking from him to the shards of pot on the floor, and back again. “Did…you just destroy a priceless artefact?”

Ah. Yes. He hadn’t quite thought about that as he’d been racing across the room to assist. Jaskier shrugged and gave Yennefer a rueful grin.

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” he replied.

For a second he thought Yennefer might yell at him for destroying museum property, or hit him with a blast of Aard. He was surprised when she grinned back.

“Deal,” Yennefer agreed.

Jaskier went to open his mouth again to ask what was going on when a mummified crocodile flew past him, narrowly avoiding a collision with his head.

“JASKIER!” Geralt roared over the noise.

Jaskier looked at him sharply, finding Geralt locked in battle with two corpses who threatened to overpower him. Jaskier didn’t know if it was a rebuke or a call for assistance, but just as hist feet began to move towards Geralt, he heard an ear-splitting scream from behind him that almost seemed to make the room vibrate.

His head snapped back towards Ciri and found the large jackal-mummy that Yennefer had tossed to the side just a moment ago advancing on the girl. Leaving Geralt to fend for himself, Jaskier raced back towards the exit and dived for the steel sword he’d abandoned by Ciri’s feet. He felt himself slide across the floor as he reached out for it, his hands closing around the soft leather grip.

The muscles in Jaskier’s shoulders screamed in protest as he pulled the sword sharply towards him and swung it over his head, bringing the heavy blade down and straight through the jackal’s skull. Jaskier cried out at the hot pain that shot through his muscles as the sword made contact with the floor, sending shockwaves reverberating through his arms and back. He dropped the sword, gasping sharply as he rolled onto his back and squeezed his eyes shut.

Suddenly, the air sizzled with a whispered spell, and the hot tang of tainted magic that had licked the back of his throat since entering stopped. Jaskier carefully prised open an eye to see that all the dead things had ceased moving; dropped to the floor like broken dolls in a scattering of limbs and ancient linen.

A beautiful dark-skinned woman came into view, picking her way through the corpses in high-heeled boots and chuckling lightly to herself as he approached Geralt and Yennefer.

“Oh, alright,” the woman laughed, holding her hands up in defeat, “I didn’t actually want anybody to get hurt – I yield.”

Yennefer’s face was like thunder; a maelstrom brewing in those gorgeous violet eyes of hers as she clenched her fist at her side. With no warning at all, Yennefer released a blast of power that knocked the other sorceress off her feet, sending her flying back into a marble obelisk. She slumped, unconscious to the floor.

“Witch,” Yennefer spat.

Jaskier couldn’t help but cackle at that, even if it caused fresh waves of pain surging through his muscles. He grimaced as Ciri descended on him; her long silver-blonde hair tickling his face as she flung her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly.

“Oh, Jaskier!” Ciri exclaimed, dramatically, “That was so brave! I’m certain you saved my life!”

Jaskier gave Geralt a lopsided smile as the Witcher loomed into view, looking at Jaskier with mild concern in his gold eyes.

“As long as you’re alright, Princess,” murmured Jaskier.

“You shouldn’t have been here in the first place,” Geralt grumbled as he reached over, grasping Jaskier firmly by the arm and hauling him upright. “I told you to stay put.”

Jaskier opened his mouth to speak again but Ciri cut him off.

“It was my fault, Geralt!” she insisted, “I ran off, hoping to get some footage for the blog even though Jaskier begged me not to.”

“Hmm,” replied Geralt.

Christ, but Jaskier’s right shoulder was killing him. He winced as he tried to gently rotate it back, but the pain was too intense. Yennefer frowned.

“Did you hurt yourself?” she asked.

Jaskier grimaced.

“A bit,” he admitted. “That sword is bloody heavy.”

“You shouldn’t have been able to lift it at all,” Geralt muttered, retrieving his steel sword from where Jaskier had dropped it and re-sheathing it carefully.

Yennefer knelt beside Jaskier, her brow furrowed gently as she gently palpated his shoulder area with slim fingers. Somewhere down the corridor came the sound of running footsteps.

“You’ll be okay,” Yen said softly, “You wrenched your shoulder – it’s nothing that an ice pack and a healing potion won’t fix.”

Jaskier smiled at her just as Triss ran into the room, followed by an Elven mage Jaskier had seen only once around the bullpen. Triss’s soft brown curls bounced around her shoulders as she skidded to a halt, looked at all the broken mummies on the floor, and growled in frustration.

“Well, that’s just charming!” Triss groused, pointing her finger at Geralt, accusingly. “You tell me there’s a necromancer on the loose in the museum and that I should get here quickly with back up, and you two have already gone and sorted the problem by yourselves! I always miss the fun!”

Yennefer grinned up at Triss from the floor.

“It was only Fringilla,” Yen told her.

Triss rolled her eyes.

“Oh, of course it was,” sighed Triss. “I did tell you not to goad her.”

Jaskier grinned as the two sorceresses wandered over to their old classmate, still slumped by the obelisk. Apparently it wasn’t much of a surprise to Triss that Fringilla was responsible.

He gasped in pain as Geralt hauled him to his feet with a frown; large hands steadying Jaskier by his upper arms.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Geralt asked him quietly.

They were standing close – close enough for Jaskier to feel the heat radiating from the Witcher’s body and see the flecks of amber in his gold eyes. Jaskier’s belly squirmed delightedly.

“Yeah,” Jaskier replied. “Why? Are you worried about me?”

“Hmm,” Geralt said with a small smile. “You’re a trouble magnet. I think worrying about you is just going to be part of my life now.”

That one took Jaskier by surprise and he could feel the colour rise to his cheeks. Breathless, he looked away.

“Yeah, well…”

“Come on, boys!” Yennefer hailed, beaming at them both as she walked over; leaving Fringilla to Triss. “Since Jaskier was the hero of the hour, I think we need to get him a drink and an ice pack, don’t you think Geralt?”

She slipped an arm around Jaskier’s waist and gave Geralt a cheerful wink. Jaskier didn’t know what to make of it, but alcohol and an ice pack sounded like heaven to him in that moment and he was happy when Geralt hummed in agreement.

It had been a hell of a day.

____

Geralt groaned softly as Yennefer poured them all another round of mystery alcohol from her liquor cabinet; his mouth twisting and nose wrinkling as he caught a pungent aniseed whiff.

“This smells bloody awful,” he groused as she nudged the shot glass towards him, grinning.

“Well you don’t  _ have _ to drink it,” Yennefer replied, playfully, “but if you don’t then there’ll be a forfeit.”

“Hmm.”

Geralt was very familiar with Yennefer’s forfeits and the punishment was often worse than the original action itself. With a heavy sigh, he picked up the shot glass and knocked back the thick black liquid, grimacing at the sharp medicinal taste.

“Oh ho! That’s strong,” gasped Jaskier, shuddering as he slammed his glass back down on Yennefer’s dining table. “What the fuck  _ was _ that?”

“I have no idea,” mused Yennefer.

The bottle – like many of the others that littered the table – was so old that the label had faded and been scratched away, concealing the liquor’s identity.

It had started as a game to distract Jaskier from the pain in his shoulder as Yennefer worked on it. The healing potion she’d brewed for him to accelerate healing in his muscles had tasted…awful, as potions tend to do and Yennefer had given him a shot of something mysterious to chase away the taste. This had led to Jaskier rifling through Yennefer’s cabinet and unearthing bottle after bottle of ancient booze, and all three of them ending up warm and happily tipsy with every shot; Jaskier once again bright-eyed and giggling.

Geralt rubbed the back of his neck as he watched Jaskier from the other side of the dining table as he picked up a round bottle of something turquoise blue and held it up to the candlelight. Maybe it was the mix of alcohol in his belly speaking to him, but Jaskier looked…fuckable.

There was no other word for it – his cornflower-blue eyes huge and dark in the soft, low light of Yennefer’s expensive Kensington apartment; his fitted white shirt hugged his slim form well, the short sleeves straining slightly against well defined biceps and the buttons hastily redone after applying an ice pack to his shoulder were now open enough to reveal an indecent amount of chest hair.

“What do you think this one tastes like?” Jaskier asked, giving the bottle a little shake.

_ Fuck, but this was getting out of hand _ , thought Geralt as Jaskier looked at him over the lit candle in the middle of the table; noticing the brief widening of Jaskier’s smile as Yennefer leaned forward to inspect the bottle in his hands; her fingers drifting to play with the back of Jaskier’s collar.

Geralt bit his lip at the pang of jealousy that flashed through him at observing the contact. Yennefer knew what she was doing – he could feel her violet eyes watching him as she gently ran her fingertips up through the back of Jaskier’s silk-soft sandy-brown hair, gauging his reaction. He wasn’t sure what irked him more – that Yennefer was touching  _ his _ Jaskier, or that Jaskier was allowing it.

Yennefer was doing it on purpose. It was something they taught budding sorceresses in their first few weeks in Arethusa – how to reach out to another’s mind and feel what they felt. She  _ knew _ how Geralt wanted nothing more in the moment than to knock the bottle out of Jaskier’s hands, rip the buttons from that shirt and have him right there on the table. She also knew that he wouldn’t do that; knew that Geralt would just sit there and stare at Jaskier over the table, too afraid of giving into his own feelings.

“I suppose it would taste much like the healing potion you drank earlier,” Geralt said; ignoring the gentle movement of Yennefer’s wrist as she continued to stroke through Jaskier’s hair.

Jaskier raised his eyebrows, quizzically.

“Its liquid endurance,” Geralt clarified, leaning back in his chair.

Blue eyes widened and suddenly Jaskier was in a fit of giggles.

“Oh, now I really want to try it.”

“Maybe we should,” Yen suggested quietly. “I’m sure we could use the opportunity to test Geralt’s own superhuman endurance between the two of us.”

Geralt’s heart stuttered in his chest as Jaskier turned his head to stare at Yennefer; an almost wicked grin spreading across his face. The look they shared went straight to Geralt’s belly – sharp and hot that made his cock twitch appreciatively. Jaskier bit his bottom lip; dragging his teeth across hit slowly as Yen leaned it further; the tip of her nose brushing against Jaskier’s cheekbone as her violet eyes flickered towards Geralt.

“Well,” murmured Jaskier, “I’m game if everyone else is.”

Geralt swallowed hard as they both glanced at him.  _ Damn Yennefer to hell _ , he thought as he watched her reach up and gently take the tip of Jaksier’s soft earlobe between her teeth and softly bite down; her eyes never leaving his. The sharp gasp that left Jaskier’s lips and the way his eyelids fluttered closed was everything Geralt had ever imagined they’d be and he squirmed uncomfortably in his chair and the growing hardness inside his jeans.

“Geralt?” she whispered, enticingly.

Fuck, but Geralt wanted to. Worst of all, Yennefer knew he wanted to, even as she gripped Jaskier’s chin and turned his head towards her, kissing him softly; slowly; sweetly.

“You’re both drunk,” Geralt countered desperately, his voice sounding strained even to his own ears.

Blue eyes found his as Jaskier broke the kiss; breathing hard as Yennefer continued to kiss across his jawline and down his neck.

“Barely,” Jaskier panted.

He was right, of course. Yes they were all tipsy, but nobody had drank so much that they didn’t know exactly what they were doing. Jaskier watched him with blown pupils, one hand buried into Yennefer’s shiny black hair and the other reached out towards Geralt, beckoning him…enticing him to join them. They looked gorgeous together – Jaskier passively moving his head to allow Yennefer better access as she took what she wanted…what  _ Geralt _ wanted.

His resolve finally cracked at a soft whimper from Jaskier as Yennefer’s hands found their way beneath that white shirt; nails raking through the wiry hair at Jaksier’s chest. Geralt pushed his chair back abruptly and stood; aware of Yennefer and Jaskier both watching his movements carefully as he rounded the table.

Geralt tried to ignore Yennefer’s smug smile as she leaned back, allowing Geralt to pull Jaskier to his feet and reel him in; one hand around that slim waist and the other pulling Jaskier in by the back of his neck. Jaskier’s lips parted for him willingly; a soft noise bubbling in Jaskier’s throat as Geralt kissed him and by God, it was better than he’d imagined.

He was soft and pliable, arms wrapping around Geralt’s neck as they kissed. Geralt could feel Yennefer’s fingers trail softly up his back even as he pulled Jaskier closer, delighting in the feel of a hard cock pressed up against his leg. Yennefer’s lips brushed against his ear and he felt her smile.

“Good boy,” she whispered, indulgently. “That wasn’t so difficult now, was it?”

_ ____ _

Jaskier didn’t know how he’d got so damn lucky. A week ago, if anybody had told him he’d find himself naked and in bed with two beautiful immortal beings, Jaskier would have asked them what they’d been smoking. And yet here he was, on his belly against soft, sumptuous sheets that smelled sweetly of lilacs; his tongue deep inside Yennefer Vengerberg and his nails grazing the inside of Geralt’s thigh, high up by the crease; both their hands buried into his hair.

He was in heaven.

Yennefer tasted divine, making his mouth water as he licked slowly and sucked gently at her clit until she was dripping wet; her thighs shaking as he caressed her soft skin. The way she gasped and cried out when he did something she liked made Jaskier’s cock leak against the covers; achingly hard and sensitive.

Even hotter than the noises Yennefer made was Geralt – the gold of his eyes swallowed by black as he mouthed across Yennefer’s soft, perfect breasts; kissed over her skin slowly as he worked his way up her throat and the side of her neck to her earlobe; his eyes never leaving Jaskier’s. The tension between them was intense as they watched each other work Yennefer over thoroughly.

Jaskier moaned softly as his tongue delved into Yennefer’s sweet wetness and she arched off the bed with a sharp cry, taking him further. She thrashed out wildly, hand searching for his and Jaskier threaded his fingers between hers, squeezing gently. They’d been through this before – it was what Yennefer did when she was close – gripping Jaskier with one hand whilst raking her nails down Geralt’s back with the other; her thighs trembling uncontrollably as her stomach tightened.

Geralt’s hand was still in Jaskier’s hair, firmly holding him in place as Yennefer’s harsh pants filled the room and right up until her fifth orgasm hit and washed over her. Jaskier allowed himself a smile of satisfaction as he pressed a kiss to the inside of her right thigh.

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Yennefer gasped, running a hand through her sweat soaked hair. “I can’t ta…I need…”

“Need a break?” murmured Jaskier.

“Mmhmm…” she replied.

Geralt was still watching him, his temple resting against Yennefer’s shoulder; lips grazing her skin and his fingers still feathering through Jaskier’s hair.

If Jaskier had thought Yennefer was beautiful, then Geralt was  _ stunning _ naked – a thin film of sweat beading on his skin and clinging to the curvature of his bare muscles. Jaskier’s mouth watered at the sight of him, strong and broad and just  _ perfect _ ; white hair falling unbound around his shoulders and clinging to damp skin.

Jaskier had already decided – right back when Geralt and Yennefer had begun to peel his clothes off – that he was going to give them both everything he had, even if it left him in a damn coma afterwards. He’d likely never get this opportunity again and he was determined to make the most of it.

As Yennefer lay panting in recovery, Jaskier took his chance and slid slowly up the length of her body, reaching for Geralt and pushing him back against the pillows.

Fuck, but he was gorgeous – white hair spilling across the dark pillowcases and lips parted, breathing heavily as Jaskier settled between Geralt’s open thighs. Jaskier breathed him in as he leaned in and pressed a tentative kiss against Geralt’s jaw and delighting in the sharp juddering breath as Geralt inhaled; his eyes fluttering closed.

Jaskier smiled to himself as Geralt’s head dropped back against the pillow, taking it as an invitation to carry on. He worked his way slowly down Geralt’s body – following the hot, pulsing artery in Geralt’s neck; pressing a kiss to the base of his throat before carrying on downwards and across Geralt’s chest; spending an extraordinary amount of time on each scar.

Christ, but Jaskier had wanted to kiss his way across those scars since he’d first glimpsed them disappearing underneath Geralt’s worn black t-shirt weeks ago. The skin there was smoother, softer, far more delicate under his lips and it made Geralt gasp sharply if Jaskier pressed his tongue against them; his fingers tightening in Jaskier’s hair. Jaskier could have spent hours worshipping at the altar of Geralt Rivia; of tasting the sweet-salt of sweat against his tongue as he worked his way down over Geralt’s stomach and hips; only vaguely aware of Yennefer rejoining them as she pressed a soft kiss between his shoulder blades.

He could smell her soft lilac and gooseberry scent as it mingled with Geralt’s heady musk; his mouth watering as his lips grazed lightly across the crease where Geralt’s hip met his thigh. Jaskier looked up; a jolt of sharp white heat spearing through his belly as he realised Geralt was watching him again; chest rising and falling rapidly as he breathed through parted lips.

Geralt’s hand slipped from Jaskier’s hair, moving around to caress his cheek and Jaskier groaned softly as he leaned into Geralt’s touch; relishing the roughness of his palm. Yennefer’s nails scratched softly across Jaskier’s shoulders; her lips grazing his ear as she settled beside him, looking up at Geralt.

“Look at him,” Yennefer murmured, “doesn’t he look so pretty like this?”

They both nodded at the same time. Yennefer’s lips had been against Jaskier’s ear, but she’d been looking at Geralt – neither exactly sure who she’d been addressing but both in full agreement.

Jaskier ached with want; his cock heavy and dripping between his thighs as Geralt’s scent wrapped its way around his brain. With a quiet, almost needy moan, Jaskier turned his head slightly and mouthed at the shaft of Geralt’s cock; adoring the silky softness of the skin against his lips.

Geralt growled, low and deep in his throat; his hands twisting further around the strands of Jaskier’s hair.

“You’re so desperate for him,” whispered Yennefer as she pressed a kiss against Jaskier’s temple. “and now you’re both right here; hard and aching and wanting. What are you waiting for?”

_ Nothing _ , Jaskier thought to himself.

The sound Geralt made when Jaskier wrapped his mouth around that thick, hard cock was delicious and it made him moan loudly; gripping the bedcovers to ground him and stop himself from coming on the spot. God, he loved it – loved the way Geralt’s girth stretched his mouth; the salt taste as he dragged his tongue against the smooth underside; loved the way the head nudged the back of his throat as he swallowed down the entirety of Geralt’s length.

“ _ Ah…Jaskier _ …”

Fuck, he loved the way Geralt said his name through harsh pants as Jaskier suckled at the head; his tongue flickering softly against the frenulum before he swallowed Geralt’s cock back down. Jaskier loved the way Geralt played with his hair; thick fingers pulling and tugging and pushing it back from Jaskier’s face so Geralt could see his eyes. He loved that Geralt didn’t once stop looking at him; didn’t tear his eyes away; forcing his eyelids not to flutter closed even as Jaskier took that gorgeous cock all the way to the back of his throat.

Yennefer’s fingers entwined with his again as she lay on her side next to Geralt; violet eyes joining gold as they both watched Jaskier suck and lick and kiss over and over and over.

“That’s it,” Yennefer murmured against Geralt’s temple, “There’s my good boys…”

Jaskier whimpered at her praise and even Geralt groaned softly. He wished he could do this forever – to stay in this bed with them in a tangle of sweat-soaked limbs and make them both come again and again – but he could feel Geralt’s thighs shaking; feel his stomach tighten and Jaskier knew Geralt had to be close.

He could taste the sweetness of pre-come on his tongue; hear Yennefer’s whispered words of encouragement over Geralt’s soft, almost desperate growls; feel Geralt trembling beneath him; hands tightening in Jaskier’s hair until finally… _ finally _ …Geralt’s back arched up, pushing deep into Jaskier’s mouth and painting his tongue with hot, salt streaks.

Jaskier swallowed every drop greedily, licking whatever he could from Geralt’s skin that had spilled over; savouring it as Geralt gasped for breath, body trembling with the aftershocks.

It surprised him when they both pulled him up the bed; two pairs of strong hands gripping him by his arms and thighs until he was between them – Yennefer at his back, her delicate fingers caressing his sides and thighs and up across his stomach and chest; and Geralt at his front, pulling Jaskier’s leg up so that his ankle rested at the top of Geralt’s hip.

Geralt kissed him hard and desperately; tongue insistently pushing between Jaskier’s lips to taste himself as his large, rough hand wrapped around Jaskier’s cock. Jaskier was long past giving a fuck about the type of noises that bubbled up in his chest and spilled out of his mouth. At this point he  _ was _ needy and desperate and he knew it and he just didn’t care.

Jaskier whined and gasped and moaned as they both brought him hurtling towards the brink of orgasm – Yennefer with her soft, slow touches and gentle kisses, her whispered words in his ear; and Geralt firm, insistent kisses and the way he tugged and twisted and stroked Jaskier’s cock that drove him almost blind with ecstasy.

He felt it build all too fast; the sharp heat that pooled in his loins, and curled and coiled in his belly and thighs like a white hot spring taut and ready to snap. It was the most incredible feeling when it broke, the wave of his orgasm flooding through him as he cried out and spilled hot into Geralt’s hand.

Jaskier lay gasping in his come-down; sweat-drenched and trembling as he collapsed back against the pillows. Geralt gathered him up, holding Jaskier close to his chest and gently scratching his nails across Jaskier’s scalp as Yennefer pressed gently kisses at the back of his neck.

“Well,” Jaskier panted, “that was fun. We should definitely do that again some time,”

He felt Geralt’s chest shake with a huff of amusement under his head, and Yennefer’s lips curl into a smile against his skin. Jaskier was exhausted and sticky, but they both held him tight as his breathing levelled out and he felt sleep spread through him with a mixed feeling of joy and despair. He knew he was in love with them both – madly in love with Geralt and more than mildly in love with Yennefer, and if this was all he was ever going to get from them that he’d take it and treasure it.

Jaskier just really hoped they’d both keep holding him until morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please my dearest darlingest readers, be assured that I appreciate every keysmash and emoji sent my way, but I also love the longer comments that let me interact with you more! Please, if you can, give me ALL THE WORDS <3


	10. You Swoon, You Sigh - Why Deny It, Oh Oh

Geralt stirred awake in the early hours of the morning, his Witcher-enhanced vision adjusting to the darkness of the room quickly as he opened his eyes to find Jaskier’s face so close to his that their noses were almost touching. Fuck, he was gorgeous – sandy-brown hair across his closed eyes, long eyelashes resting on freckle-spattered cheekbones; his lips gently parted as he slept. Geralt felt his heart flutter in his chest and he looked away quickly.

He couldn’t do this. Geralt knew that what he was starting to feel for Jaskier went beyond just simple companionship or friendship, but he just wasn’t ready to face those feelings and decide what to do with them. Not yet.

Carefully, Geralt slid out away from Jaskier and slowly sat up. Yennefer was still curled into Jaskier’s back, her long black hair spread out across the pillow and her lips grazing Jaskier’s shoulder; her breathing light in her slumber. They were all still completely naked, but strangely clean of all the sweat and bodily fluids that would have dried on their skin during the night. Small bonus of sleeping with a mage, thought Geralt.

Slipping out of bed was easy enough, but finding his clothes was an entirely more difficult task. None of them had cared much where they’d thrown clothes the night before, too preoccupied with getting down to bare skin as quickly as possible. Geralt found his t-shirt in the kitchen and his jeans in the hallway, and was searching under Yennefer’s expensive Italian silk-upholstered sofa when she surprised him.

“Where are you going?”

Geralt sat up abruptly to find her standing in the living room doorway, a hastily thrown-on satin nightshirt unbuttoned and barely covering what it needed to. Geralt sighed – he’d really been hoping that he could sneak out without waking anyone.

“Work,” he replied, quietly. “I have a bunch of paperwork that never got done yesterday and some backlog to clear. I wanted to get an early start.”

Yennefer scowled at him, folding her arms across her chest.

“Skipping out before breakfast?” Yen murmured, “You know I’m used to you running out on me to avoid talking about important shit, but you shouldn’t start doing it to him.”

Geralt winced. It was one of his worst habits – running off when faced with the prospect of actually having to have a meaningful conversation. Yennefer didn’t even know this would be the second time he’d left Jaskier in bed while he slipped away early.

“That’s not what I’m doing,” Geralt lied.

“Bollocks,” Yennefer muttered. “You’ve caught a severe case of Feelings and you’re avoiding The Conversation.”

Geralt frowned and went back to hunting for his shoe. He hated that Yennefer was right, and he hated that it wasn’t only one conversation he was avoiding, but two – his relationship with Yennefer had always been open, but he still loved her and being open to a romantic relationship with Jaskier potentially meant finishing one with the only other person he really cared about in this world. Geralt wasn’t ready for that either.

“At least stay until he wakes up,” Yennefer urged, softly. “Don’t just fuck him and leave without a word.”

Geralt unearthed his shoe and stood, hastily shoving his foot into it. Reaching for his jacket, he slipped it on and checked his car keys were still in his pocket.

“I’ve got to get to work,” he said.

Yennefer’s face crumpled.

“Geralt…”

As if he didn’t feel bad enough for running out on them both. He wished he was the type of person who was comfortable with letting people close; that talking about his feelings and letting people see past his hard exterior didn’t scare the ever-loving shit out of him, but it did. He needed time to think about it; needed space to process it.

“Yen, just…please,” he begged her, “let me deal with this in my own time.”

A muscle twitched in Yennefer’s jaw and there was anger and hurt in her stunning violet eyes, but she said nothing else as Geralt kissed her briefly on the cheek and walked to the door.

He just needed a little time.

____

The bed was warm and soft and sumptuous, and Jaskier didn’t want to open his eyes even as he reached full wakefulness. He ached in all the best ways and he just wanted to savour that for a little bit longer – once he opened his eyes, the spell would be broken and the world would go back to normal.

Jaskier felt the mattress dip on his right hand side and he turned, his eyes fluttering open to find Yennefer sitting on the bed, her black hair piled haphazardly on top of her head and a mug of freshly brewed coffee steaming in her hands.

“Good morning!” Jaskier greeted her with a smile.

“Morning,” replied Yennefer, softly. “I thought you might like some coffee.”

“Fuck yes,” Jaskier breathed, inhaling the rich scent of Columbian blend and Madagascan vanilla as he pulled himself up to sitting and took the proffered mug from her.

Yennefer grinned at him and stood up to open the curtains, awarding Jaskier with a wonderful view of the expanse of her smooth, bare thighs as she stretched; the dark satin nightshirt riding up so far as to offer a glimpse of her buttocks. She really was very beautiful.

He sipped his coffee appreciatively and then glanced down at the empty space in the bed beside him.

“Where’s Geralt?” Jaskier asked.

Yennefer’s smile slipped marginally as she turned back to him and sat back on the edge of the bed.

“He went to work early,” she replied, gently. “Something about having all of yesterday’s paperwork to catch up on.”

“Oh…” murmured Jaskier as his heart sank to the pit of his stomach.

He’d hoped that Geralt was just in the shower, or making breakfast in the kitchen…but it had happened again – they had spent the night together and Geralt had left before sunrise without a word. Jaskier was sure Geralt had no idea about the last time, when Jaskier had fallen asleep on the couch and woke up in the middle of the night with Geralt’s solid warm at his back and strong arms around him; Geralt’s face buried in the crook of Jaskier’s neck. Geralt had been gone by the morning, leaving nothing but a cold empty space behind in Jaskier’s bed, and Jaskier had never mentioned it once…

“Don’t let it bother you,” Yennefer said softly, reaching for Jaskier’s free hand. “This is…a thing Geralt does when he’s afraid to talk about something important.”

Jaskier’s breath caught in his lungs as he looked into Yennefer’s understanding violet eyes.

“It doesn’t…bother me,” he replied with a laugh that sounded far more choked than he’d intended. “There’s nothing…he doesn’t need to explain himself to me, there’s…”

“Oh fuck,” murmured Yennefer, “you’re really fucking in love with him, aren’t you.”

Jaskier froze like a rabbit in the headlights. Was he that transparent? Probably. Jaskier had always worn his heart on his sleeve and made no attempt to hide it…except with Geralt he’d tried. He was madly in love with a man who wouldn’t love him back, who was currently in a long term relationship with the woman sitting right beside him. And yet, Yennefer  _ knew _ …

“I…” Jaskier began, considering denying it at first but deciding against it. “Yes,” he admitted. “It’s not exactly hard.”

Yennefer snorted.

“Yes it is!” she exclaimed. “It’s  _ exceptionally _ hard to love Geralt Rivia – he’s stubborn, he’s closed off, he’s crotchety. He does everything possible to keep anyone from getting close…”

“And he’s completely wonderful,” whispered Jaskier.

Yennefer’s expression softened and she squeezed his hand.

“Yes he is,” agreed Yen. “You know, we’re not  _ together _ -together – me and Geralt.”

Jaskier’s heart bobbed up from the pit of his stomach and he stared at her.

“You’re not?”

Yen shook her head.

“We never have been. We’re important to each other, yes. I care deeply for him and he cares for me too…but we don’t  _ work _ – not in the long term. We’re both too stubborn and cantankerous and used to getting our own way, and that makes for a tempestuous relationship.”

“I didn’t know that,” replied Jaskier, quietly.

He felt breathless. All this time he’d believed that Geralt belonged to Yennefer; that he had no chance. Now, Jaskier felt that tiny spark of hope ignite in his chest as his heart was once again buoyed.

“Don’t give up on him,” continued Yennefer. “He’s an idiot and he doesn’t know what’s good for him…but he will.”

Jaskier couldn’t help but laugh.

“Are you really telling me to go for it?”

“Yes!” Yen insisted with a grin. “You love him…and I think he can be happy with you if he just gets his stupid head out of his arse.” Jaskier snorted and Yennefer’s grin widened for a moment before she grew more serious. “I saw the way he looked at you last night, Jaskier; the way he touched you; the way he kissed you. There’s more between you two than either of you believe.”

Jaskier looked down into his coffee cup, feeling his cheeks grow warm. There had been heat in the way Geralt had looked at Jaskier the night before, that was true. Jaskier had felt Geralt’s hunger when they had kissed; the desperation as Geralt pulled Jaskier’s body close. For the first time, Jaskier truly dared to hope that Yennefer was right – that there was more there than he’d thought.

____

“There’s absolutely nothing,” Renfri sighed into the phone. “No fur, no DNA, no eyewitness accounts – it’s like whatever this creature is…it left no trace.”

“And it’s disappeared into thin air,” muttered Geralt.

He’d been trying all morning to distract himself with work, hoping that he could chase up some leads in the Camden Creature case, but Renfri had nothing to give him.

“I’m sorry, dude,” Renfri said, apologetically.

“It’s alright, Renfri,” Geralt sighed. “Let me know if anything magically turns up.”

He replaced the phone and groaned in frustration, leaning heavily back in his chair and running his hands through his hair. Triss looked up from her screen and frowned.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Yeah,” replied Geralt. “It’s just…too quiet in here.”

The bullpen was devoid of its usual Ciri today as the girl had been grounded by Calanthe for hurtling headfirst into a gaggle of reanimated mummies. Ciri had taken full responsibility for her actions and Geralt had managed to escape getting suspended for a week because of that, even if he wasn’t Calanthe’s favourite person right now. Ciri had been so exceptionally proud of herself.

Of course without Ciri’s presence and her background chatter grounding him, Geralt’s mind had quite often drifted back to the night before and the mental images of Jaskier, naked and on his knees with his pretty mouth wrapped around Geralt’s cock as he moaned so sweetly…

“You sure?” continued Triss, “It’s just that you don’t really seem like yourself today. Missing Jaskier?”

“What?” Geralt snapped, staring at her.

Triss laughed.

“I just mean that he’s become an almost permanent fixture around here in the last few weeks,” she explained. “I think this is the first day he’d not followed you in here since the museum theft.”

Triss was probably right, but the only reason Jaskier wasn’t here now was because Geralt had slept with him and then scarpered before Jaskier woke up. Geralt wasn’t exactly proud of himself.

“He’s working on the blog.”

Geralt’s head turned in the direction of the door as Yennefer walked through it, carrying three coffee cups in a cardboard holder. Triss beamed at her.

“Oh here’s trouble,” Triss said as Yennefer passed by her desk and handed her a coffee.

“Caramel macchiato, extra hot.”

“You know what I like,” replied Triss as she took the coffee. “To what do we owe the please of Yennefer Vengerberg’s presence?”

Yennefer grinned.

“I’ve come to take Geralt for a bit of a walk,” she said.

Geralt growled. The last thing he needed was for Yennefer to start prodding him about this.

“I’m busy,” he groused.

“No he’s not,” Triss piped up, “He’s got no leads on the Camden Creature and I did his paperwork from the museum debacle yesterday.”

“Excellent,” beamed Yennefer, “Then you have no excuses.”

Geralt cursed inwardly, vowing he’d get Triss back for this somehow as he got up from his desk and shrugged on his jacket.

They didn’t go very far – just outside of New Scotland Yard to the railing separating Victoria Embankment from the icy Thames with a view of the Eye going round in the bright Spring sunshine. He accepted the coffee Yennefer handed him and sighed.

“What’s this about, Yenna?”

Yennefer cradled her own coffee cup in her hands and looked at him over the rim.

“Well, you ran out so early this morning we didn’t get the chance for a proper chat.”

“I don’t want to have a  _ proper chat _ ,” countered Geralt.

“I know you don’t,” Yennefer replied, softly, “but we need to talk about Jaskier.”

“No we don’t…”

Yennefer’s violet eyes blazed and she smacked her hand hard against the metal railing.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” she hissed. “You fancy the  _ fuck _ out of him, Geralt - I know it and you know it, and yet you were quite willing to do fuck all about it until I stepped in to help…”

Geralt scoffed, gently.

“Help? Yeah, getting eaten out is  _ such _ a sacrifice, I don’t know how you coped,” he muttered.

“He was looking at  _ you _ ,” Yennefer growled, ignoring his dig. “The three of us might have all been naked and in bed together, but he only looked at you Geralt…just as you only had eyes for him.”

Geralt bit his lip guiltily. His relationship with Yennefer had never been a monogamous one. They had both understood that from the start – that even though they loved each other, that they were important to each other – they would never be that couple who grew old together. But Yennefer was still the only person he’d ever really felt this strongly for…until he’d met Jaskier.

“Why do you even care about this?” Geralt asked.

Yennefer rolled her eyes skyward and sighed heavily.

“Because I want you to be happy, Geralt. God knows you’re the happiest you’ve been in years whenever Jaskier is around. You owe it to yourself to explore that…to take the chance.”

Geralt looked away and sipped his coffee, unable to keep himself from wincing at the bitterness he was no longer used to. Yennefer’s expression softened and she reached for his hand, gently threading her fingers through his.

“Geralt,” she said gently, “We both know I can’t give you what you need – we’ve always known it. We go back and forward but it never lasts and I think your heart breaks every time. You need somebody in your life who can be a constant; somebody who can give you the stability you’ve been craving in your life. I think Jaskier could be that person for you. He adores you, Geralt – anybody who has spent five minutes around the two of you can see that…and I know you have feelings for him too, no matter how much you try to deny it.”

Geralt looked down at his hands linked with Yennefer’s and sighed.

“It doesn’t bother you?” he asked, “that I…Jaskier…”

Yennefer smiled.

“Geralt, I want you to be happy and I really think you  _ could _ be happy with him if you just let yourself try. Besides,” she added, her smirk turning dirty, “after last night, I’m pretty sure Jaskier would be more than happy to share you on occasion.”

Geralt couldn’t restrain his snort of amusement, as he remembered Jaskier’s statement that they should do it again sometime.

“It’s…just not that simple, Yen,” he sighed.

“Yes it is,” Yennefer replied, “you just make it more complicated than it needs to be sometimes.”

Geralt grimaced.

“I’m not good at telling people how I feel, Yen,” explained Geralt, “I don’t even know myself – like I said to you this morning, I need time to go my own pace. I need to figure out how to do this again, how to…”

“Open up to somebody?” Yennefer finished. “I know you do. Just…don’t take too long to figure it out – he’s only human, and they don’t have as long in this world as we do.”

Geralt nodded and raised his coffee cup to his lips again.

“Christ this is bitter,” he said with a shudder.

Yennefer frowned.

“You’ve always liked the coffee from that place,” she said. “What’s changed?”

Geralt rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the warmth of mild embarrassment flooding his body.

“Yeah, here’s the thing,” he said, carefully. “When Jaskier first started tagging along, I wasn’t too happy about it and I kept pretending I liked different types of coffee…that was until I found out he was penniless and by then I didn’t have the heart to tell him I didn’t actually like hazelnut lattes. It seems I got used to the sweetness by accident.”

Yennefer’s violet eyes widened and then she started laughing.

“So you’ve been drinking guilt lattes?”

“I don’t want to make him feel bad,” Geralt replied, trying to bite back a grin.

For a couple of weeks now, Geralt had dutifully drank every single hazelnut latte Jaskier had brought him and, if he was honest with himself, he was actually starting to like them. Just like Jaskier, they were growing on him.

Geralt sighed as he looked into the murky Thames water. He still felt bad for leaving before Jaskier woke up again and he knew Yen was right – he needed to get his act together sooner rather than later. Maybe he wasn’t quite ready to say anything out loud just yet, but he knew he couldn’t let Jaskier slip away just because Geralt was too chicken shit to face him.

He knew what he needed to do.

____

It was almost evening and Jaskier had been working all day on the new blog entry.  _ The Witcher Hour _ ’s social media accounts had been blowing up solidly for the last twenty-four hours with Geralt fans begging for footage. The story of the walking mummies had been all over the evening news, although no reporter or camera crew had been inside the museum at the time…except for Jaskier. Currently, he had the monopoly on the story and the whole damn world knew it.

Jaskier knew he should be far more excited about this. In less than a month he’d gone from being a penniless freelancer with an idea to having one of the hottest blogs on the internet and a huge interest from national publications and even the BBC. Jaskier was happy enough to accept the odd job here and there to get his fingers in the pies, but there was no way he was abandoning Geralt.

The truth was, Jaskier didn’t want to be anywhere else or doing anything else. He loved his life right now – loved being with Geralt on a daily basis, the excitement of the cases; he loved the deep and rich politics of the various races he’d encountered and he loved coming face to face with monsters he’d only ever heard of. The whole world now knew of Geralt Rivia and how incredible he was, and they knew Jaskier was the man responsible.

He should have been thrilled…but instead, Jaskier was distracted.

All day, his mind had gone back to Geralt – the way those lust-blown gold eyes had watched as Jaskier had taken Geralt’s cock all the way to the back of his throat; the way those strong, thick fingers had tightened in his hair; those low, needy growls that made Jaskier’s cock leak desperately against the soft bedsheets. God, it had probably been the best night of Jaskier’s entire life; burned into his memory forever because it was probably the only time it would ever happen…

Except…Yennefer had given Jaskier that small spark of hope. She’d planted a seed in Jaskier’s mind that Geralt may feel something for him and he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

A knock on his front door made him jump and Jaskier shook the images of naked Geralt from his mind as he got up from his couch and padded down the stairs, watching the figure beyond the frosted glass and feeling his heart begin to hammer hard against his ribs as he recognised the broad-shouldered silhouette.

“Geralt!” Jaskier beamed as he pulled the door open to find the Witcher on his doorstep.

Fuck, but Geralt looked beautiful.

Admittedly, Jaskier had always thought Geralt looked beautiful, but it seemed like today he’d made an effort. His hair looked soft and almost silver in the fading Spring light, falling around his shoulders instead of being scraped back as always; his ripped jeans and faded black tee replaced with jeans in a dark indigo and a button-down that looked brand new.

“Hi, Jaskier,” Geralt said, quietly.

Those large, strong hands held a bottle of wine that he cautiously turned over as he held Jaskier’s gaze.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Jaskier asked him, leaning against the doorframe.

Geralt inhaled deeply.

“I just…I had to go to work early this morning and I didn’t get the chance to see you.”

Jaskier felt himself grin.

“Aww,” he replied, playfully, “did you miss me?”

“Something like that,” Geralt murmured.

Jaskier’s stomach felt like a swap of butterflies had taken up residence in his stomach, stirring up a storm. He glanced away quickly to gain a modicum of composure before speaking again.

“Uhm…do you want to come in?”

“Please,” replied Geralt. “I thought we might open this.”

He held up the bottle of wine and Jaskier took it from him, studying the label as they made their way up the stairs and into the kitchen.

“Sauvignon Blanc,” said Jaskier, appreciatively. “Did you want to stay for dinner? I’ve got some scallops in the fridge that would go lovely with this – maybe an orange sauce?”

“Sounds delicious.”

Geralt gave Jaskier a small smile as he shrugged off his jacket to reveal his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Jaskier loved those forearms, loved the curve of Geralt’s wrists…

“So,” he said, a little louder than he’d meant to, “what have I missed today over at Scotland Yard?”

Jaskier loved the way that Geralt seemed to know his way around Jaskier’s kitchen, knowing exactly where the bottle opener was and the wine glasses. He smiled as he leaned against the counter and watched Geralt make himself at home.

“Nothing much,” Geralt sighed as he popped the cork and poured Jaskier a generous glass of wine. “Calanthe was mad as fuck and almost suspended me, but Ciri took the fall and got grounded instead.”

“Shit!” Jaskier muttered, “is Ciri okay?”

“Oh she’s happy as a clam,” Geralt chuckled as he filled his own wine glass, “very proud of herself.”

“I can imagine,” grinned Jaskier.

He had only known Ciri for a short while, but Jaskier liked the girl immensely. She was about as strong-willed and stubborn as Geralt, and that was saying something.

“What have you been doing all day then?” asked Geralt, his smile soft and small as he looked at Jaskier over the rim of his wine glass.

The look made Jaskier’s knees go weak.

“I, my dear Geralt,” Jaskier began dramatically, “have been flooding the internet with footage of your gorgeous face – and Yennefer’s obviously – at the behest of your multitude of fans across the world.”

Geralt grimaced.

“Fuck,” Geralt muttered, “I don’t think I’m ever going to get used to this.”

“You got used to me,” Jaskier replied, quietly.

Geralt looked at him with soft gold eyes, his head tilted to the side and a ghost of a smile playing across his lips.

“Yes,” he murmured, “I suppose I did.”

Jaskier’s heart beat fast, drumming a tattoo in his chest at the look in Geralt’s eyes – not the heat he’d seen the night before, but a soft, almost fondness that made Jaskier ache. Could he dare hope that Yennefer was right?

It felt like their relationship had shifted underfoot and there was a new tension between them that hadn’t been there the day before. Jaskier liked this – liked that Geralt had sought him out; had been the one to reach out. Not a word had been said about what they’d done the night before, but it wasn’t exactly awkward either – the tension was like a warm blanket; heavy and comfortable and secure.

“Should I make a start on dinner?” Jaskier asked eventually, tearing his eyes from Geralt’s.

He heard Geralt inhale sharply as he raised his glass to his lips.

“Hmm.”

Fuck, but Jaskier could absolutely get used to this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the world went on lockdown and I got a new job that I’m supposed to start in 3 weeks. Until then, I seem to have lots of time on my hands.
> 
> This chapter was written twice. I hated the first version - I tried to make it awkward & cute but it was so out of character that I scrapped it and wrote this version instead.


	11. Geralt vs Feelings 2.0

_ Sometimes you have to learn a lesson the hard way – not every creature can be saved. These past few weeks working alongside Geralt have been incredible and I’ve seen his empathy towards monsters that most would have killed in a heartbeat. I’ve discovered a different side to these creatures and discovered that a Witcher’s job is to know the ones that can be saved and the ones who cannot…and I’ve found out how awful it is to have to kill a creature you so desperately wanted to save. The Witcher has to live with those decisions, always wondering if he made the right call and if destroying such creatures really would benefit humanity. It’s a burden I would not wish to carry. _

_ ~ Jaskier,  _ The Witcher Hour

____

Geralt couldn’t seem to move without being recognised these days. He’d only stopped at the corner shop on his way to work to buy a bottle of water and the shopkeeper had asked for a picture, which had then sparked off a flurry of patrons taking out their phones for snaps of the infamous Witcher. Geralt had left without his water and hurried to the tube station, wondering if he was going to have to take his trusty unmarked Police car to and from work in future.

He was uncomfortable with his newfound fame, unlike Jaskier who seemed to revel in it. Twice this week he’d stopped to take selfies with ‘Witchlings’ as he called fans of  _ The Witcher Hour _ . Geralt silently marvelled at how easy Jaskier was with people; how charming and sweet and enthusiastic; how one cheeky wink could make fangirls swoon. The man was a damn artist and he was using his finely crafted persona to full advantage.

Of course, Geralt preferred the other Jaskier – the smart, quick-witted and politically-minded Jaskier with a fondness for chicken nuggets and spending his evenings in Geralt’s company with wine and a movie that Geralt never really watched because he was too busy staring at Jaskier’s profile and the way his cornflower-blue eyes sparkled in the light of the TV screen; the way his lips curved into a smile and how much Geralt wanted to kiss him…

Their dynamic had definitely shifted since That Night. Geralt was slowly coming to terms with the fact that he really did fancy Jaskier, that he liked his life with Jaskier in it, and – most importantly – that he wanted to keep Jaskier in it as long as possible. Several times that week he’d almost started a conversation on the matter and then thought better of it. Geralt just couldn’t find the right words and he didn’t want to fuck it up so it was better to say nothing at all.

“Good morning!” Jaskier greeted him warmly with a cup of hazelnut coffee that Geralt gratefully accepted.

“Morning,” replied Geralt.

They had started meeting at Westminster tube station and walking to New Scotland Yard together with coffee that Jaskier always picked up. It had started by accident – the two of them bumping into each other as they exited the station – and the next thing Geralt knew, it was part of their daily routine. He enjoyed the five minute journey with his shoulder brushing against Jaskier’s as they walked close together in the morning commuters’ crush, drinking overpriced artisan coffee and exchanging pleasantries.

His heart seemed to beat a little quicker upon spotting that sandy-brown hair over the crowds and Geralt had no choice but to admit to himself that this was a good thing he had going with Jaskier. It was new and scary and different, but it made Geralt happy. Every accidental touch was like a flash of warmth that flooded his body and made him feel more awake than each sip of his sweet coffee.

They had almost made it to the Yard when Geralt’s phone rang, interrupting Jaskier’s anecdote about that morning’s tube ride. Geralt frowned and fished it out of his pocket, silently cursing the incessant buzzing that brought him back down to Earth with a bump.

“Rivia.”

“I have a case for you, Witcher,” drawled Calanthe on the other end. “A missing person.”

Geralt’s frown deepened and he caught Jaskier by the sleeve of his Sherpa-lined jacket, pulling him to the side and away from the crowds.

“Missing person?” Geralt repeated, “Who?”

For an awful second, Geralt thought something had happened to Ciri, but Calanthe was way too calm for that to be the case. If Ciri was missing, Calanthe would have the whole world burned to the ground to find her.

“Oh, just some rich twat’s son,” replied Calanthe with evident disdain. “Apparently he went on a camping trip to Bedfont Lakes and hasn’t come back. His daddy wants us to look into it.”

“And…why is that my problem?” Geralt asked with a sigh.

“Because the kid isn’t the only thing to have gone missing around Bedfont Lakes in recent weeks,” Calanthe explained, “people walking their dogs have reported cases of their dogs never coming back, and some have reported seeing deer being pulled under the water.”

“Hmm…”

Jaskier raised an eyebrow at him.

“Sounds very much like Kelpie behaviour,” said Geralt, “but Bedfont Lake isn’t Scotland.”

“Well it’s a good job I have a Witcher on retainer to go investigate such mysteries isn’t it?”

Geralt sighed and ended the call, shoving his phone in his back pocket before turning back to Jaskier.

“Kelpie?” probed Jaskier, leaning against the embankment railing.

“Hmm,” Geralt replied, “it certainly sounds like it.”

Jaskier raised one eyebrow, quizzically.

“What’s a Scottish Kelpie doing in a lake near Heathrow Airport?”

“I have no idea,” murmured Geralt. “Do you want to find out?”

The mischievous grin Jaskier gave him made Geralt’s stomach flutter.

“You bet your arse I do!”

____

Jaskier studied the ancient Bestiary in his lap and Geralt sped down the motorway to the Sussex lakes. Kelpies were stuff of myth – a horse-shaped water spirit known to inhabit bodies of water, but almost exclusively found in Scotland. The Bestiary gave many contradicting accounts of the Kelpie, some citing them as useful creatures, but most telling of the Kelpie pulling humans below the water and devouring them, leaving behind only entrails on the shore.

“So, who went missing?” Jaskier asked, glancing briefly at Geralt.

“Some toff’s son,” Geralt replied, “Calanthe didn’t seem thrilled about it, but then again that might just be because I’m not exactly her favourite person right now.”

“Because of Ciri?”

“Hmm,” agreed Geralt, “she’s very protective over her beloved granddaughter. And don’t think you got off Scott-free – she’s keeping a closer eye on you too.”

Jaskier blinked at him.

“Me?” he exclaimed, “What did I do?”

“It’s your blog Ciri is obsessed with,” explained Geralt, “She wouldn’t have raced off into a gaggle of mummies if it hadn’t been for you.”

Jaskier snorted.

“Yes, she would,” scoffed Jaskier, “has Calanthe even met her own granddaughter?”

The corners of Geralt’s mouth twitched into a smile. He’d known Ciri for a lot longer, but even Jaskier could tell the girl was adventurous and curious and brave. If Geralt thought Jaskier was trouble, then Ciri would undoubtedly be worse.

Closing the Bestiary with a snap, Jaskier sat back in the police car’s passenger seat and sighed.

“Okay, so this thing has the description of a Kelpie and all the horrible things it can do, but there’s nothing in there that says why a Scottish water spirit would suddenly appear in Sussex.”

Geralt glanced at him.

“It may not necessarily be a Scottish Kelpie.”

Jaskier frowned.

“What? You mean I educated myself on a monster, and now you’re telling me I may have wasted my time?”

Geralt flipped the indicator and turned off onto a slip road.

“Lots of countries and cultures had Kelpie-like creatures in their mythology,” explained Geralt, patiently. “Even in different parts of Scotland it can be a  _ nuggle _ or a  _ tangie _ , and the Welsh counterpart is the  _ ceffyl dwr _ , and the Isle of Man has the  _ cabbyl-ushtay _ . In Europe you get the Germanic  _ neck _ and the Scandinavian  _ backahast _ …”

“Alright, I get it,” Jaskier sighed, “basically there are creepy shapeshifting water spirits all over the place. So are we looking at a new species, do you think?”

“No idea,” Geralt replied, “but whatever sub-species it might be, we’ve got to face the very distinct possibility of finding this young man’s entrails on the shoreline.”

Jaskier suddenly remembered the Camden murder and the body parts strewn all over the alley; the metallic stench of blood as it dried on the tarmac. His stomach lurched.

“Lovely,” Jaskier muttered.

The Bedfont Lakes Country Park was quite large, but the car park was relatively quiet as they pulled in and parked up. Over the last few weeks, Jaskier had started to leave things in the boot – his backpack full of filming equipment; sturdy boots; a change of clothes. Following Geralt’s suit, Jaskier changed his footwear and selected a small camcorder before shouldering the backpack that contained emergency supplies. He watched as Geralt rummaged through the black bag stuffed with potions.

Those potions fascinated Jaskier, although he had never really dared ask Geralt about them. He wondered if Geralt made them himself or had them brewed by a sorcerer. Perhaps Yennefer made them for him.

“So, what’s the plan?” asked Jaskier as he watched Geralt pocket a potion. “Do we just wander around the lakes and look out for entrails?”

“Pretty much,” Geralt replied, strapping on his dual swords.

Jaskier wished he’d never asked.

The trek around the country park was rather pleasant. The weather had warmed up a little and the sun shone brightly, filtered into beautiful golden beams through the leafy forest canopy. Jaskier found himself singing and was happily surprised that Geralt didn’t once ask him to shut up. They were strangely comfortable in each other’s company, like a woodland hike was something they did all the time.

Geralt had mellowed slightly over the last week. Jaskier had been so afraid that things would be different after their night together, and they  _ were _ different…but pleasantly so. They still hadn’t talked about the sex, but Jaskier had the distinct feeling Geralt was working up to it, slowly.

On the dirt path in front of him, Geralt suddenly stopped and turned his head towards the small lake sparkling and twinkling in the sunlight through the trees, his nose twitching.

“What is it?” Jaskier whispered.

Geralt sniffed the air and frowned.

“Blood,” he murmured, “and decay.”

A shiver ran down Jaskier’s spine and he swallowed hard before shrugging off his backpack and digging out the camcorder. Slowly, he followed Geralt out from the safety of the trees and onto the sand-rock mix of the lake shore. Sure enough, strewn out across the ground, were rotting gizzards swarming with flies. They had obviously been there a few days.

Jaskier felt sick but he turned his camera on anyway, filming the remains for a second before turning it onto Geralt. The Witcher was standing still but tense, his gold eyes fixed on the shore opposite and Jaskier followed his gaze.

A horse was standing in the shallows – sleek and black, it’s coat healthy and gleaming. The creature was beautiful with its long, wild mane tumbling down its muscular neck, full black tail swishing gently as it watched Geralt silently. Jaskier was sure his awed gasp was audible.

“It’s stunning,” Jaskier murmured.

It was hard to believe this majestic creature was a monster.

“Shh,” Geralt hushed him before turning his full attention on the Kelpie that was starting to make its way across the lake – not through the water, but on top of it – it’s hooves causing gentle ripples with each step. Jaskier shuddered again when he realised the Kelpie’s hooves were facing the wrong way.

As it came closer the Kelpie began to snort, tossing its head in agitation.

“Easy,” Geralt told it gently, “we’re not here to harm you.”

The Kelpie stamped and dragged the water with its hooves and Jaskier got ready to run.

“It’s the remains,” murmured Geralt, “it thinks we’re going to take them…”

He tailed off as the Kelpie suddenly reared. The next few seconds were a blur – Geralt was fast, pulling his silver sword free of its scabbard, but the Kelpie was faster as it charged across the water towards them. The Witcher didn’t even manage to get his potion free of his pocket before the Kelpie reached him, knocking Geralt off his feet and dragging him across the shore to the water. The silver sword flew out of his grip with a flash of sunlight glinting off the blade and Jaskier watched in horror as the beautiful black coat of the Kelpie seemed to turn into liquid, enveloping Geralt as he thrashed against it.

“GERALT!”

Jaskier didn’t even think as he dropped his backpack and camcorder to the ground and raced forward, his feet splashing into the shallows.

“STAY BACK!” Geralt roared, but Jaskier didn’t heed him.

Instead he reached for the silver sword and crashed after them. The Kelpie snorted one last time before disappearing under the waves, taking Geralt with it.

“NO!” screamed Jaskier.

He plunged into the water, silver sword in hand and lashing out with it. It was lighter than the steel sword had been but Jaskier had no idea how to wield it, stabbing wildly at the water where the Kelpie had been seconds before. Geralt did not resurface.

Jaskier took a deep breath and dived.

Below the surface, the water was murky but he could make out the outline of Kelpie and Witcher below him. Jaskier kicked his legs and propelled himself forward, feeling his feet weighed down by his sturdy boots but he had to reach Geralt. It was like swimming through treacle and Jaskier’s lungs grew tight but he kept going, watching Geralt’s hands reach out to him.

Suddenly, the sword was gone from Jaskier’s grasp; a flash of silver split the murky water and even though it should have been impossible, Jaskier heard the Kelpie’s unnatural screech of pain ring loudly in his ears.

His lungs were fit to burst; every cell in his body screaming for oxygen and Jaskier knew that any second, even though he knew it would be the end of him, his body would give in and inhale…

Strong hands gripped him as his vision clouded at the edges and Jaskier felt himself dragged swiftly upwards, water racing past his ears until at last his head broke the surface and he sucked in his lungful of sweet spring air.

The both coughed and spluttered, clawing their way back to the shallows and dragging each other from the water, hair plastered to their heads and dripping wet; collapsing exhausted on the sand.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” gasped Geralt, pulling himself over to whereear Jaskier was vomiting lake water over the shore.

Jaskier felt Geralt’s hands on him again, turning his body roughly by the shoulders until they faced one another. Geralt grasped Jaskier’s face, fingers pushing sopping hair back from Jaskier’s face almost violently.

“You could have been killed, you idiot!”

“So could you,” Jaskier managed to choke.

“It’s my fucking job!” Geralt hissed. “It doesn’t fucking matter if I’m killed – I’m supposed to keep you safe!”

Jaskier stared at him in disbelief.

“It matters to  _ me, _ ” he replied weakly. “I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you…”

Geralt stilled, his gold eyes softening. He still held Jaskier’s face in his hands; palms rough against Jaskier’s cheeks.

Jaskier’s heart was pounding in his chest, his lungs aching. How could Geralt not know? After all this, how could he not know how special he was? How much he meant to Jaskier?

They stared at each other – Jaskier clinging desperately to Geralt’s sodden leather jacket and Geralt breathing hard; gold eyes searching Jaskier’s face as he processed when Jaskier had said.

“You’re important to me, Geralt,” Jaskier whispered, “and if there’s even the slightest chance I can save you, I’m going to try.”

Geralt didn’t move except to stroke his thumb across Jaskier’s cheek – a soft movement; barely noticeable except that Jaskier’s skin yearned for Geralt’s touch. To him it was warm as the summer sun after a cold winter. After a second Geralt looked away and sighed, his hands dropping from Jaskier’s face to pull him in; enveloping him into a hug that was both warm and safe.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Geralt muttered into Jaskier’s hair.

Jaskier felt a small laugh bubble up in his chest as he wrapped his arms around Geralt’s back and hugged him tight.

“The pot is calling the kettle black there, Geralt.”

He smiled as Geralt chuckled softly and buried his face into Geralt’s neck. Jaskier didn’t even feel cold with those strong arms around him; the pair of them continuing to drip into the sand.

“Did you kill the Kelpie?” he asked, voice muffled against Geralt’s skin.

“Yes,” Geralt replied, softly.

Jaskier nodded, but he felt the weight of sadness settle over him. The Kelpie had been beautiful and he’d really hoped things would have gone differently; that Geralt might have saved it like the Hirikka. But the Kelpie had killed somebody and had tried to kill Geralt – there had been no saving it after that.

“I’ll have to call the local coppers,” Geralt murmured. “I think it’s safe to say this boy is dead.”

Jaskier nodded again and sighed, pulling back.

“Okay.”

“And we should probably get you out of those wet clothes before you catch cold.”

A grin rose to Jaskier’s lips.

“That’s just a thinly-veiled excuse to get me naked, isn’t it?” he joked.

Geralt ducked his head to hide his smile.

“I’ll get your bag.”

A shiver ran through Jaskier as Geralt moved away from him and Jaskier sniffed, wrapping his arms around himself to preserve a little of the heat he’d soaked up from Geralt’s body as the Witcher retrieved the sandy camcorder and the bag Jaskier had dropped on the shore. But even as his body trembled with cold, his heart was burning bright – that had been the closest he’d ever got to Geralt admitting that he cared.

____

“What are you doing?” Geralt asked; frowning as Jaskier shuffled closer to him with his phone in hand.

“Selfie,” murmured Jaskier.

They were wrapped in blankets, huddled on the sand by a hastily dug fire-pit whilst they waited for the local coppers to respond. Jaskier’s thick hair had dried fluffy and Geralt could no longer catch the familiar apple scent but he didn’t care – Jaskier was alive and safe.

Geralt fondly rolled his eyes and pretended to poke the fire with a stick as Jaskier snapped a photo of them and began typing swiftly on his keypad.

“What tale are you spinning now?”

Jaskier gave him a small smile.

“I almost lost my Witcher today,” he said, softly, “but we both survived it. It’s not a tale – just the truth.”

“Hmm,” Geralt replied.

He’d almost lost his Jaskier too. Geralt had fought against the Kelpie, but the second he’d seen Jaskier swimming towards him, Geralt had fought harder. It was one thing for the Kelpie to take Geralt but he could never let it drag Jaskier to the depths; never let the Kelpie devour him. Just the thought of losing the one light in his miserable life…well…

He’d almost said it – kneeling there, dripping wet on the sand with Jaskier clinging to him with those earnest cornflower-blue eyes – Geralt had almost told Jaskier that he was important to Geralt too; that he was the best thing Geralt had in his life right now.

But he hadn’t. Even after all of this, something still held Geralt back from telling Jaskier how he felt.

Geralt sighed heavily as Jaskier settled against him, resting his head against Geralt’s shoulder as Geralt wrapped an arm around him and pulled Jaskier close. His hair smelled like lake water, but Geralt still buried his nose into its softness.

“You okay?” Geralt asked, quietly.

“Yeah,” murmured Jaskier, “I just want to go home.”

Geralt nodded.

“I know. As soon as the local coppers turn up I’ll take you home, I promise.”

Jaskier hummed softly and snuggled closer. Geralt resisted the urge to press a kiss into that soft, fluffy hair.

Fuck, but this was ridiculous – why was it so hard for Geralt to vocalise his emotions? He wouldn’t have any issue sliding his finger under Jaskier’s chin and tilting his head up so he could look into those cornflower-blue eyes and press a kiss to Jaskier’s lips; thread his fingers through that soft hair.

The physical wasn’t the problem and Geralt knew that – it was facing the emotional consequences of it that Geralt just couldn’t handle yet. He would push Jaskier down on that rough pebble-sand in a heartbeat; capture those breathless gasps and soft moans with his lips as his hands pulled Jaskier’s clothing aside and got his hands on that smooth skin…but he didn’t think he could look Jaskier in the eye afterwards. He wasn’t ready to give Jaskier the conversation he deserved.

Soon, but not yet.

The sound of sirens in the distance made Geralt sit up and slowly unwind his arm from Jaskier’s shoulders as the local police and forensics vans drove up the access road to the lake. He hated the loss of Jaskier’s comfortable weight leaning into his side but he stood, handing Jaskier his warm blanket as he began to trudge towards the coppers.

It didn’t take him long to fill them in on the situation and to give his details in case they needed to contact him further about the case. Geralt’s job was done – he had slain the monster and now the regular police could handle the rest.

The car journey home was quiet and tense but not uncomfortable, even if the space between them was filled with all the things Geralt wished he could say. He ran through it over and over in his mind, but even then he couldn’t find the right words.

“Are you coming in?”

Jaskier’s soft voice broke Geralt from his reverie and he was surprised to find they were outside Jaskier’s Camden flat. Geralt had driven on autopilot.

“Uhm…” Geralt faltered, “I need to get this written up at the Yard first.”

Jaskier pouted, playfully.

“Surely you can do that later? You could come in, get cleaned up so you don’t stink of pond water and Kelpie…”

Geralt laughed.

“I do not stink of pond water and Kelpie,” he replied.

“That’s what you think,” grinned Jaskier, “You haven’t been sitting next to you in the car for the last hour.”

Geralt shook his head, warmly.

“It’s a trap – once I get inside I’ll get too comfortable to move.”

“That’s the point,” Jaskier murmured.

God it was tempting. Far too tempting. Now that Jaskier’s flat had heating and hot water, the damp had dried out and it was no longer inhospitable. Add to the mix that a shower sounded wonderful right about now, and that Jaskier would most likely feed him and ply him with wine while they ate, and then they would sit on Jaskier’s couch where their shoulders touched and he could feel Jaskier’s body pressed against his own…

“I can’t,” Geralt said with great self-restraint, “but…I can come over later, if you want me to. After work?”

Jaskier smiled gently at him.

“Yes, I want you to,” he murmured.

Fuck, but all Geralt wanted to do in that moment was to close the gap between them and pull Jaskier into a kiss; to take them both upstairs and squeeze into Jaskier’s shower, pushing Jaskier up against the cold tile as hot water cascaded over their skin. Instead he bit the inside of his cheek and nodded.

“I’ll see you later then.”

“See you later,” replied Jaskier, quietly.

They looked at each other for a moment and in that time Geralt really believed it would be Jaskier who would lean in and press a kiss to Geralt’s lips, but he didn’t. Jaskier flashed him a small smile and leaned over into the back seat to retrieve his bag of wet clothes and his camcorder before opening the door and climbing out of the car.

_ Jesus Christ Geralt _ , he thought to himself as he watched Jaskier unlock his front door.  _ Why are you such a fucking moron? _

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Lockdown came and ruined my motivation. Its a tough time for everyone and I'm really trying to keep my spirits up. I hope everyone is coping okay and that you're about as sick of these two idiots pining after each other as I am XD Please leave a comment in the little box <3

**Author's Note:**

> Soooooooooooo here I am. I can't believe I fell down this rabbit hole and I'm comin at you with yet another flaming AU!
> 
> Thank you for clicking on this, and for reading it. If you'd be so kind, please leave kudos and a little comment after the beep....


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